


Unmistaken Identity

by MKK



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Affection, Awkward Sexual Situations, Comfort, Developing Relationship, Friendship/Love, Identity Swap, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mistaken Identity, Role Reversal, Transporter Malfunction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MKK/pseuds/MKK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious transporter accident occurs on DS9 - with dramatic consequences.  Julian Bashir now looks and sounds exactly like Elim Garak, who now looks and sounds exactly like... Julian Bashir.  Complications ensue; not everyone adjusts well to the new reality, including our heroes - more or less.  The two do their best to work through the challenges, however, both professional and personal. After all, it's really what's on the inside that counts - or is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read any of my other stories: no, this isn't a dream and Q is not involved! :-) I hope you enjoy my version of the "identity switch" theme. I wrote it in a lighthearted style but tried to make some serious points as the story goes along. 
> 
> May I offer a hint: keep in mind, after the switch occurs, that when I as the narrator refer to Garak, I mean our Garak on the inside, but he looks and sounds like Bashir on the outside! When I refer to Bashir, it's our Bashir, his mind and personality, but with Garak's appearance and Garak's voice. Thus, when I write about Bashir's scales or Garak's hazel eyes, that should make perfect sense - I hope! :-) G/B note: this is sometime around 2nd/3rd season; the boys already have an intimate side to their relationship, but it's still quite new.

Julian Bashir awoke during the night, slightly nauseated, disoriented, huddled under several blankets in a room that was about ten degrees warmer than he usually kept it. Ah. In the haze of his barely-returned-to-consciousness brain, he decided he must somehow have made his way to his Cardassian friend Elim Garak's quarters after their return to the station known as Deep Space Nine and had fallen deeply asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He hoped his "friend" hadn't been too disappointed; Garak no doubt was expecting something more when he had extended the invitation - if he had extended the invitation, as Bashir found he was utterly unable to recall one. 

Oh well. Nothing that an invigorating splash of cold water on the face wouldn't cure; Garak, Bashir quickly ascertained, was not in the bed, so he must be in the bathroom. Bashir lay blinking up at the ceiling for one minute, two minutes, three, as he waited for his turn. His turn never came; the room was silent except for the constant quiet whirring of air through the ventilation system. With a sigh, Bashir climbed off the high bed and limped to the bathroom door. 

His legs felt heavy, odd, almost as if his brain weren't in full command of them. His clothing, likewise, was heavy and thick - was he actually wearing a pair of Garak's pajamas? Never did that before. He hadn't even recalled undressing, much less clothing himself again in these unfamiliar things. He must have been cold - but COLD? Really? Here? And yet he wasn't perspiring in the heat either; the pajamas actually felt quite comfortable and their added warmth was welcome.

Strange. At least the nausea was subsiding, although his sight was a little blurry, a little fuzzy. The door slid open and he was about to call for lights, then decided his tired eyes could make do with the faint glow from the security panels filtering in from the outer room. He let the cold water from the tiny sink pour into his hands - which, oddly, felt larger; no, not larger, exactly, but thicker, almost - no, not swollen, not exactly... And yet he felt the cold keenly through his skin and almost gave a little shudder. 

What a night. What a strange night to cap off an even stranger return - it had seemed so minor, the little trip to the wormhole with O'Brien, just a change of scenery and an excuse to get away from the station and an influx of Cardassians courtesy of Gul Dukat and a demand for "shore leave" for his crew. Shore leave. Right. Quark was the only one who had ever seemed pleased by the prospect of Cardassians back on the station - oh, he moaned and groaned, but he endured the insults with aplomb and bustled about his bar like a frantic but jubilant mother hen. Back in his element - back on Terok Nor, with Gul Dukat turning a blind eye once again to Quark's looting of Cardassians.

The dabo girls were somewhat less pleased, although they too adored the extra income, both reported and under the table, as it were. Cardassian soldiers were not often verbally abusive, not regularly violent, and certainly very few of them ever stooped to the vulgarity of pinching or stroking the parts of the girls they were not expressly invited to pinch or to stroke. 

It was, instead, their overweening sense of superiority, their total dispensing with the art of romance, that made them such unpleasant clients. "When you're finished here, you'll join me in my room," was about as gracious an invitation as Leeta ever received, especially when it was accompanied by a subtle but very self-important smile. Extremely self-important in the case of the great Gul Dukat, but Leeta was sworn to secrecy on that point and would never dare risk the loss of income, not to mention Quark's undying ire. And, after all, Gul Dukat had at least an inkling of how to woo a Bajoran; well, after a fashion, she regretfully admitted to herself with a little frisson of - no, on second thought, she would never admit it.

Garak, in a desperate bid to remove himself from the station for a day or two, expressed a sudden passionate interest in "space photography" and had even come rushing into the shuttle bay with an obviously secondhand and outdated Klingon holocamera slung over his shoulder and a very hopeful look in his wide blue eyes. Bashir pleaded for O'Brien to allow Garak to come along, an even more hopeful look in his wide hazel eyes, and O'Brien simply grunted. Privately, though, he grumbled to Bashir every time the Cardassian left the tiny bridge for any reason.

"Why doesn't he just close his shop and stay in his room when the Cardie- Cardassians - are around?"

"Can't. Cardassian pride," Bashir whispered, looking over his shoulder.

"So running away is better?"

"He's not running away, chief. He's coming along with us to indulge his new hobby of photographing the wormhole. This opportunity presented itself now and he grabbed it."

"Tell you what. I'll give you twenty credits if he even knows how to take one image with that thing."

Bashir was silent.

"I thought so."

Bashir made a face. "Just be nice to him, all right? He's had a rough time. Was punched in his shop -"

"He would have been fine if he had kept his mouth shut," O'Brien muttered, rather uncharacteristically cruel even for him.

"It was HIS shop! And they knew full well what manually taking an inseam entails."

"They were baiting him. He could have refused to -"

"Shh - here he comes." Bashir smiled brightly as Garak slid back into the chair. And in thus manner the whole flight had gone. Bashir, trying to defend Garak against the chief's thinly-veiled displeasure, stood with his arms practically encircling Garak from behind as the Cardassian attempted to manipulate and focus the ancient camera. O'Brien, uncomfortable at the display, snorted and huffed until Garak became just intrigued enough to begin doing some baiting of his own. A little squeeze of Bashir's shoulder, a quick ruffling of the hair on the back of the doctor's neck, a secret smile that wasn't kept at all secret from their disapproving friend... It had been an interesting journey.

Made even more interesting when, not two seconds after the return trip through the wormhole, the runabout's screens displayed mysterious energy pulses that raced through the ship's systems like playful ghosts - here one second, then gone, then back in a different area. The lights flickered on and off and, for an instant, for just the fraction of an instant, there appeared to be an energy buildup in the engines that could possibly have led to an explosion - but then all was well, was perfectly normal. O'Brien hightailed it back to the station but, just as they were about to dock, the energy buildup returned.

Docking was refused. The runabout was to be kept at "arm's length" until the systems could be more thoroughly checked. That did not mean, however, that the passengers were going to be quarantined - instead, O'Brien volunteered to stay and begin his analysis while his two companions beamed back to the station. They reluctantly agreed, and, as was standard practice in a case like that, the runabout's transporter was to be kept inactive while the men were located and beamed away using DS9's transporters alone. 

The erratic little pulses coursing through the runabout were being monitored; what wasn't monitored was the fact that its transporter had still managed to lock on to the two men, then let them go - then locked on to them an hour later while they lay in bed in their separate rooms - then let them go. Sort of.

O'Brien finally gave up for the night, powered down the systems, and himself was beamed off the runabout using station transporters alone. 

 

Bashir imperceptibly shivered at the icy cold water in his palms, then brought his hands up to his face to splash his eyes and relieve some of the grogginess. He felt something - blisters? - on his nose. It was almost as if he too had been punched just as Garak was. He splashed his face again - adding a little warm water this time - and again felt the odd blisters on his nose and even around his eyes as his hands touched them. Had he hit his head in his sleep? Hurt his face? He had felt perfectly fine after his return from the runabout - oh, possibly a little disoriented, but transporting always did that to him, and he suspected the effects were mostly in his mind. Still, this was... odd. Really odd. He called for lights.

A face stared back at him, blinking, from the bathroom mirror. It was not his face. He gasped in shock; then his knees began to buckle.

 

Garak awoke, blanket twisted around his legs. Blanket, singular. Thin metallic blanket. He opened his eyes. He never limited himself to just one blanket, and most emphatically not Starfleet's version of a thermal blanket, which he likened to wrapping a piece of aluminum foil around one's torso. He must have fallen asleep again in the doctor's bed, he mused - a practice he usually found both thrilling and, as now, rather uncomfortable - it was his preference to lure his beloved Julian Bashir to his own, much warmer, bed. And room, obviously - the air he sniffed now was decidedly - well, not cold, but certainly not warm. 

He sighed, and reached out in the dark toward the other side of the bed. No one there. Bashir must have gotten up to use the bathroom. Garak waited. It was puzzling - he had no memory of either being invited to, or inviting himself to, share the doctor's quarters the previous evening, but no matter - he must have been exhausted, after all; this was an unexpected opportunity and he was going to make the most of it. He'd certainly find a way to warm that bed when Bashir finally returned.

Which he never did. Garak grew tired of waiting and, deciding Bashir must have been unexpectedly called to the infirmary, stumbled out of the low bed and into the living area. He felt uncoordinated, almost gangly, as if his limbs were too long for his body to control - he nearly tripped over a low table, banging his shin against it. Cursing under his breath, he found himself wondering why his voice echoed so strangely in his head as he reached up to rub his eyes to wakefulness. The face his fingers encountered was a little sand-papery around the mouth but otherwise smooth. Too smooth, altogether too flat, too warm, the eyes not outlined by anything resembling... "Computer - lights!" he commanded, but he couldn't hear himself. All he heard was Doctor Bashir calling for lights at the same instant he himself did. What a relief then - Julian was back. The lights switched on and Garak said, "Doctor, I think something must have happened to my -" 

Or, rather, Bashir said it. The voice seemed to Garak to be filtered through his own head, though, so it didn't sound exactly the way Bashir usually sounded to his ears, but close enough, and he looked around in confusion. No one else was in the room. Where was the voice coming from? "Doctor?" he repeated, more tentatively, again at the very same instant Bashir said it. But why would Bashir be calling for a doctor? And where in the room was he hiding? Garak's hands reached up once more to his face. Something was very, very wrong. He sprinted to the bathroom mirror and gazed, disbelieving, at Bashir's tousled head and into Bashir's hazel eyes. "Doctor..." he breathed, dumbfounded, staring in shocked wonderment at - "Doctor Bashir!!" he finally shouted.


	2. Chapter 2

"Security... Security!" Bashir shouted, at a loss for what to do or whom to summon - in the mirror, the terror on 'Garak's' face reflected the terror in his voice - speaking Bashir's words. Momentarily stunned at the sounds coming out of his throat, Bashir stopped and tried to think, staring all the while at his - at Garak's - reflection. "Odo!" he finally faltered. Why Odo? Because someone had evidently stolen - He suddenly realized that Odo, that anyone else, could not hear him, alone in the bathroom of Garak's quarters, so he staggered back into the living area on unfamiliar legs and collapsed into a chair. 

"Odo," he whispered, thumbing a tab on the communications console with peculiar gray fingers. "Odo, this is Bashir. Emergency in Garak's quarters - please help me." He waited, holding his breath. 

Finally Odo's calm, bemused voice filled the room. "Odo here. Very funny, Garak. Now will you please stay off the security channels - I'm dealing with Cardassians on the loose on the station - surely you remember what that's like." Bashir was stunned.

"Odo - Odo, please. Something's happened to me - this is Bashir, and I - I don't -"

"I don't have time to play along, Garak. Not tonight. But I do have one piece of advice. You've got the accent just right but you're not even trying to imitate his voice. Even I could do better than that. Now go back to bed - or whatever it is you were doing when you decided to have some fun with me." He seemed to harrumph with disdain.

"Odo!" Bashir practically begged. "This isn't a joke - I need you to come to - to Garak's - quarters right away - There's something I need you to -"

"All right, Garak," Odo finally conceded. "I'll admit I didn't act swiftly enough to help you in your shop - even though that was partly your own fault. So now you want your revenge. You've got me. I'm on my way." His tone changed. "That's enough now - game's over. I'm sorry, 'Doctor Bashir,' but I'm not moving from this office. You'll have to come to me and tell me what's wrong." Bashir could almost see the smirk on Odo's expressionless face through the voice comm channel. 

"Odo! I can't!" Bashir wailed.

"'Cahn't'?" Odo, amused, imitated his British accent, "or won't? Go back to bed, Garak. I have work to do. I thought your people were going to behave themselves this time - I don't need you adding to the fun."

"ODO!!"

"Wait - wait, can this possibly be - why, yes it is!" Odo's voice held a smile. "Pardon me, Garak, but someone's trying to reach me from the doctor's quarters. Who might it be, I wonder? Could it be - 'Garak'?" Bashir was cut off just as Odo's office filled with the sounds of a frantic Doctor Bashir. The shapeshifter leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and sighed. Those two. Always those two lately. What were they up to? Did he even want to know?

"Odo! This is Garak! I'm in - I'm in Doctor Bashir's quarters -"

"Yes, I know, 'Garak,'" Odo sighed. "I know all about it."

"You do?" Garak paused, breathless.

"Yes I do. Doctor, again I must protest, but this time to you - you're doing an amazing job with the accent but you're barely even trying to mimic his actual voice. He has a slightly higher pitch than you do, for one thing. Try saying it this way: 'Odo, this is Garak.'" Odo smiled, pleased with himself - that had been a pretty fair impression of the Cardassian, he silently admitted. Now if only he could totally perfect his 'Quark' - THAT would come in most handy. Most handy indeed. He had never quite been able to master the precise degree of whining obsequiousness... 'Garak' continued to speak.

"Odo, this IS Garak! Something's wrong - something's horribly wrong, and - and his face, and his voice, and - I don't know what to -"

"Something's horribly wrong, all right," Odo sighed. "It's 0300 and I'm being inundated with prank calls. How long did you and Garak take to cook this up on your way back? Or do I have Chief O'Brien to thank for this? Next time, try to make the joke a little funnier. Good night, Doctor." He cut the connection just as Quark himself - yes, that voice was indeed most distinctive - began shouting at him from another channel. A bar fight. At last - it had only been a matter of time. Odo was almost tempted to ask him if he was calling as either 'Garak' or 'Bashir,' but resisted the urge and quickly summoned backup to meet him on the Promenade.

 

Bashir sank back against the chair, then flexed his fingers in front of his face. Gray, just as he had observed all these months, holding a cup of redleaf tea across from him, or a dinner fork, or - or sometimes his own hand. Gray. And now that hand, those hands, were his - oh, yes, he could move them, move his arms, move his legs, feel his weight on the seat of the chair - it was his body in a sense and, while he could control it in all essential respects so far, it was NOT his body - it was heavier, more muscular, sturdier, perhaps even a little more coordinated, more agile in ways Bashir could imperceptibly sense as he sat and pondered his next course of action. Garak was a fighter. He had a fighter's body. Bashir now had a fighter's body.

The unreality of the situation both agitated and calmed him. He was operating almost outside of himself now - as if he were observing himself, observing Garak, through the lens of that Klingon holocamera. He had obviously convinced Odo of nothing. Even were he to have used the visual link, it would have made no difference - it would have been Garak's face speaking with Garak's voice. No wonder Odo was so impatient. 'This is Bashir' - how else could that possibly be taken, then, except as a joke? 

"This is Bashir," he said aloud, and then, once more, "This is Bashir!" The Cardassian's voice echoed in his head. He leapt to his feet. He was a fighter too.

 

Garak caught sight of himself, walking rapidly down the corridor toward the security office from the opposite direction. The stride was a little longer and faster than his usual stride, the shoulders slouched forward a little bit more, but it was him. In his pajamas. Hurrying through the station - in the middle of the night, granted, but still in public - dressed only in pajamas and socks. He gave an involuntary shudder, before his mind raced back to his current situation and he realized he too - Bashir's body, that is - was in bare feet, wearing nothing but thin midnight-blue pajamas. 

Evidently the two of them had come to the impossible realization at the exact same time and had bolted out of their quarters to seek help - he froze in both panic and relief. If he was in Bashir's body, then please, all the powers in heaven, please let it be just as he was assuming - He cried out, "Doctor Bashir! Is that you?" 

Bashir, at last catching sight of him too, stopped and stared in amazement. "Garak?"

"Yes, doctor - it's me." He pushed an errant curl off his forehead; perspiration had plastered it there as he ran. "It's - it's me. It's Garak." He flew toward Bashir, then stopped once again in his tracks and waited, panting heavily. "Is that you? That's really you? Inside - me?"

"I - I think so. I woke up and - and didn't know where I was, and then I saw my face in the mirror -" Garak watched himself in involuntary fascination; he - his mouth, anyway - was effortlessly speaking Standard with the cultured accent he had always so admired in his human companion, even to the point of finding it somewhat arousing the times they lay in bed and talked - he loved both the sound of the doctor's voice and the intonations, the differing way he pronounced some of the words. And now his own voice - was that really his voice? Did he really sound that way to others? - was reproducing it perfectly. Fascinating. He could hear what he himself said as well, could hear Bashir's voice, using the neutral North American accent so widespread in Starfleet, and which he had likewise adopted during the time he was learning to speak Standard. He could only imagine how he must sound to Bashir. How Bashir must sound to Bashir. Again, fascinating.

But frightening. And incomprehensible. Bashir obviously felt that way too. "I've heard stories of alien entities stealing bodies - controlling bodies -" His eyes - his blue eyes, shadowed by the eyeridges - were wide and uneasy. "But this - I mean, we're not being controlled - are we? Do you feel forced to do anything, or, I mean -"

Garak shook his head. His hazel eyes mirrored the unease in Bashir's own as he replied, "I don't think so. I don't feel any different - that is, except for -" He didn't need to finish. Definitely didn't need to finish. The more he spoke, the more distracted he became, not only at the unfamiliar sound of his own voice but at the sight of himself, Cardassian brow furrowed in concentration, standing a meter away and listening to him. Nervously shifting from one socked foot to the other - absently reaching up to scratch a neckridge before pulling the hand away in shock after encountering one - Fascinating to watch, and utterly incomprehensible. "Doctor - I think we're in very serious... very, very serious... ah, difficulties."

Bashir opened his mouth to answer when, from the direction of the Promenade, Odo and two security guards came storming toward them, a Cardassian soldier and a Klingon - Bashir recognized him as the owner of the Klingon restaurant - in tow. The group caught sight of Garak and Bashir standing together in the corridor in their pajamas, and both the Klingon and the Cardassian gave a simultaneous bark of laughter; Odo rolled his eyes, and the Bajoran security guards remained neutral - oh, smiling imperceptibly, to be sure, but doing their best to remain relatively neutral.

"Gentlemen..." Odo began under his breath, as the motley group all entered the office together, "gentlemen... don't you think this has gone far enough? I'm sure you can see we're rather busy at the moment."

"But Odo!" both Garak and Bashir exclaimed at the same time; just then, the Cardassian soldier turned to Bashir and sneered, in Kardasi, "Hello again, Mr. Garak! Seeking rescue from the human's bed?"

Bashir stared blankly at him; Garak sidled up to the Cardassian and, leaning in close, sneered back, likewise in Kardasi, "On the contrary, I just rescued him from your mother's bed." The soldier roared and lunged for Garak, as the two Bajorans did their best to hold their charge back and even the Klingon grinned; Odo stared at Garak in amazement before quickly asserting control over the situation. The two combatants were pushed into separate cells and Garak and Bashir were escorted into a smaller office to the side.

Odo glared at them. "Doctor," he finally growled in, of course, fluent Kardasi, staring straight at Garak, "may I ask why you've been keeping this secret from us?"

"Secret, Odo?" Garak blinked. The air of charming confusion that he was so practiced at radiating didn't have quite the same effect when projected through the doctor's darker eyes and features, coming across instead as mere annoyance. He switched back to Standard for Bashir's benefit. "You mean the secret I've been shouting at you for the past HOUR?"

"Doctor, please - just calm yourself and tell me why you're -"

"Odo! I am not Doctor Bashir! I'm Garak! GARAK! ELIM GARAK!!" He began to shake slightly with frustration. 

"Yes, and I'm Benjamin Sisko - shh, don't tell anyone or you'll ruin my cover." 

Garak blinked again. Bashir, rousing himself, tried next.

"Odo, he's telling you the truth - we both are. We woke up and somehow - we don't know how - we found ourselves switched. I haven't even been able to imagine a reason why. Alien intervention? Transporter malfunction?" The calmness in his new Cardassian voice seemed to bring the level of tension in the room down a notch - but only a notch.

"That's impossible," Odo finally scoffed, watching them closely, eyes darting from one to the other. "You were both beamed back unharmed from the runabout - I saw you myself last evening. In fact, Doctor," he turned to address Garak, "you told me you were tired and were going back to your room. Or was I instead speaking with Mr. Garak all that time?" He smiled.

"You weren't then, but you ARE NOW!" Garak thundered. "He's telling you exactly how it happened! We woke up this way! Surely we can prove to you we're who we say we are. I can speak Kardasi, for one thing."

"My congratulations. So can I."

"I know Bashir's security codes," Bashir offered, then gulped. "I - I mean, MY secur-" Stupid thing to say, really - he had no doubt that Odo already suspected Garak of knowing a great many security codes around the station, those belonging to Bashir probably first on the list, so how exactly would that prove his identity... "And - and you can quiz me on Starfleet procedures, and, and -" Great. Keep talking. Dig hole, insert self. Oh yes, that statement would certainly convince Odo that he was not a Cardassian agent. He sighed.

"Yes!" Garak exclaimed. "There are probably a million things we can tell you to convince you, starting with -"

The room filled with a frantic voice from the comm system. "Infirmary to Security Chief Odo! We're unable to locate Doctor Bashir - we need him here immediately! Infirmary to -"

"This is Odo," he quickly replied. "The doctor is with me - I'm beaming him to -" Bashir shook his head fearfully, although Odo's eyes were on Garak, who also shook his head. "I'm sending him to you immediately." Bashir sprang to the outer office and then broke into a run, Garak at his heels, Odo following them both, the two security officers staring after them all in confusion. "ChaH maw'," ("They're crazy,") the Klingon muttered to the Cardassian in the next cell, who nodded. Crazy, indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

The good news - the group surged into the infirmary in plenty of time to witness the birth of Krin Tasa's baby; Bashir had been shepherding her through a rather difficult pregnancy for months. She was understandably upset that night when, although indeed the labor had commenced one week earlier than expected, the doctor was nowhere to be found. But there he was, just in time, escorted by the station's chief of security for good measure - and the baby was born full of health and vitality, with not a single complication to delay his entry into Bajoran society. 

The other good news was that Odo was forced to admit that his assumptions were incorrect - there was no doubt, listening to the medical instructions coming out of "Garak's" mouth, observing the efficiency and the concern he showed while guiding an assistant and nurse Jabara through the procedure while "Bashir" stood awkwardly and silently far to the side, that Doctor Julian Bashir was indeed somehow inside the body of the Cardassian spy, Elim Garak. No doubt about it. Not even Garak could have put on a performance that skillfully unrehearsed - and without ever once forgetting to use the Bashir accent Odo was grudgingly growing accustomed to hearing in Garak's mouth. So while the successful birth was a relief, Odo's next steps were not going to be so simple.

And that, in fact, was the bad news. Very bad news. Neither Tasa nor her husband had allowed Bashir anywhere near the delivery room; the screams Bashir had thought were from pain were instead directed at him, as he, a Cardassian in appearance - and not just any Cardassian, but Garak, the station's tailor - strode into the infirmary in his pajamas and began donning surgical gloves. In the tumult and chaos, Garak's pleas of "I'm not really him, ma'am - I'm Garak - I'm not the doctor," and Bashir's many futile attempts to soothe and reassure his patient simply added to the panic, especially when Bashir decided to attempt a physical examination. 

It was only when the fist of Tasa's husband nearly connected with the side of Bashir's jaw that Odo intervened and decided that explanations, and examinations, were going to have to wait. Bashir and Garak remained outside the delivery room, Bashir watching the proceedings remotely by viewer and offering his support and advice to his assistants. 

Luckily, there really wasn't much, after all, for him to be concerned about, which was certainly just as well, since the thought of him, in his Garak body, flying into the room and taking over would possibly have sent his poor patient into hysteria and her husband into a holding cell. And when Garak - in Bashir's body - was asked by the proud parents to pose with them and the baby, the look of discomfiture in his eyes was glaringly and completely obvious to everyone except the understandably-in-denial parents - any shred of doubt remaining in the minds of Bashir's staff was finally and decisively eradicated.

An hour later, Commander Sisko had summoned his own senior staff, who were all waiting to meet with their colleagues - in whatever form those colleagues now existed - in Sisko's office. Odo had procured clothing for the two so that they could greet their inquisitors with some semblance of dignity. But first - a complication, totally unforeseen but totally natural and unavoidable. Bashir realized that he had not once, in all the hours he had been awake, actually used the bathroom yet. Neither had Garak. And for Bashir, at least, the situation was becoming rather urgent. Garak walked with him to the door. 

"Do you need my help? Do you need me to show you what to do?"

"You've got to be kidding, Garak. I think I can figure it out."

"I'm not sure you can, and I wouldn't want you making a mess of -"

"Garak!! I'm a doctor - and don't forget, I'm also male! We're not all that different, you know - I mean, I'm fairly well acquainted with your - I mean, you know, your -"

"Yes, yes, doctor, I know what you mean. But you've never actually seen me use it in the bathroom." Bashir realized that, indeed, he had not. 

"So? I mean, it can't be so very different from what I do - it's just instinct, right?"

"Right. For a Cardassian. Are you sure you don't want me to -"

"NO, Garak! Just leave me alone for a second - I'll be right out." He added, with a little grin, "I'll let you know what happens." Garak smiled back but more with concern than amusement.

Two minutes later, Bashir called plaintively toward the closed door, "Garak?"

"Yes?"

"How do I get it to -"

"You press on either side of it. That brings it out just enough to -"

"Okay... okay, I think I've got it." Silence. More silence. "This feels really... weird... I hope I'm doing it right..."

"Do you want me to come in and help?"

"NO!"

"All right. Oh, and don't worry - you'll get used to it."

More silence; Garak began to wonder just how thoroughly his friend was examining his new, ah... equipment. Then, finally, Bashir called from inside the room, "Do you need to go too?"

"Probably. I suppose I'd better. I can't imagine it'll be very difficult to figure out your plumbing, doctor." 

It was not, and after Garak had spent just a little more time than was strictly required for the procedure, the two then made their way to Sisko's office together.

 

"So you're telling me," Kira began, tense and coiled like a spring, "that I'm to believe that Garak now has full medical security clearance and is actually the doctor? That this isn't some kind of trick?"

"Major," Odo replied, "It's not GARAK who has the doctor's security clearance now - it's Doctor Bashir. Looking like Garak."

"Uh huh. And sounding like Garak, and acting like Garak -" Bashir blinked. 'Acting' like Garak? In what ways was he 'acting' like Garak? "Garak has been able to gather a lot of information since the Federation took over this station - the only thing I'm not clear on is why Doctor Bashir is going along with this."

'Doctor Bashir' also blinked and sat forward. "Because I'm not Doctor Bashir, Major. I'm Garak. I can't believe it's this difficult to convince you. I don't speak like he does, I don't move like he does, I don't -"

"Brain scans," O'Brien suddenly blurted out. It sounded like some kind of curse, and both Bashir and Garak turned to look at him. "You heard me - brain scans," he repeated earnestly. "Brain scans will show what's going on inside - won't they?"

"Y-yes," Dax nodded, considering. "Assuming their patterns show any difference from those before. They haven't actually switched BRAINS, chief... at least, I don't think so..." She thought a moment more. "We have Doctor Bashir's scans in his medical file, and of course he took a great many scans of Garak during..." She stopped at Bashir's, that is, Garak's, look of barely-concealed, horrified embarrassment. "Well, It's worth a try, anyway." 

She paused again and a slow, mysterious smile began to spread over her face. "Oh, and so is this." She jumped up and, in less than an instant, had wound her arms around Garak's neck and kissed him, full on the mouth. One second, two seconds, three, leaning him back against his chair while the stunned occupants of the room watched them in equally horrified embarrassment. Finally, she broke the kiss and stood back.

"That is not Julian Bashir," she proclaimed, slightly breathless. "I believe I've just kissed my first Cardassian."

"I'm going to need a little more proof than that, Lieutenant," Sisko said, an imperceptible smile of his own cutting through the tension in his voice.

Garak quickly stood up. "I'm not going to agree to -" Despite the seriousness of the situation, Dax broke into a laugh and Sisko nearly joined in - at least his eyes did.

"That's not what I was implying, doc- Mr. Garak. I think we should proceed with the scans. But even more importantly, we need to determine how this happened so we can reverse it. The doctor has theorized alien intervention. The chief feels it's transporter malfunction, and I'm inclined to agree. All use of the transporters has been suspended while we test them. We're also contacting two experts in transporter technology via subspace, one of whom has immediately offered to travel here - but it will take ten days for him to reach DS9. In the meantime -"

"In the meantime," Bashir continued for him, "Garak and I will do the best we can. We'd appreciate all of your help and your understanding." He glanced over at Kira, who wore a petulant look of disbelief. "Let's all remember that Garak and I didn't ask for this to happen, so we'd appreciate any assistance you can give us around the station." He paused while everyone nodded - Kira reluctantly, but she still nodded. Eventually. "If my experience with Krin Tasa is any indication, it's going to be very difficult for me to act as chief medical officer here until this is resolved." A very pointed look directly at Kira, from under his ridged gray brow. "And yet I see no alternative - I'm perfectly healthy, I sense no diminishing of my medical ability or mental capacity," Garak bristled slightly at that, "and there's no reason why I can't continue in my duties. Do you agree, Commander?"

Sisko seemed slightly taken aback. Oh, he agreed - certainly he agreed. What else could he do? But the thought of Elim Garak now given the run of the station, able to walk into Ops whenever he felt like it, able to access the most private medical records, Sisko's included, able to demand that any one of the staff, even Sisko himself, undergo a physical examination at any time... One which he himself would conduct... Maybe Kira was right. But, no, she wasn't - he trusted Odo implicitly and Odo was convinced. Of course it wasn't Garak at all, Sisko reminded himself. Not Garak. Bashir. Not Garak. Bashir. He kept up the chant in his head while he replied, "Yes, I agree, Mister- Doctor. I agree." 

Bashir smiled - a very Garak-like smile, and Garak smiled too, a shy grin that had "Bashir" written all over it. The other occupants of the room stole furtive glances at each other; O'Brien kept his head lowered and refused to look at anyone at all. Only one overriding thought now occupied his mind, just one. A very important one. More important just for an instant than the transporters, more important than the brain scans, more important even than the fact that he would do anything he could to help his friend out of this new predicament. 

Darts that weekend. Dart tournament, in fact. He and Bashir had been practicing for weeks. How the hell was he going to back out of it? What was he going to tell Gar- Bashir?

 

It was also agreed that the scans and examinations could wait until after Garak and Bashir had partaken of a little breakfast; after all, they had both been awake and in a state of activity and nervous agitation since about 0300 - it was now just after 0900. So they were allowed to enjoy a meal alone together in the replimat, probably their last meal before the entire station - or at least the part of the station that read Sisko's daily communiques - would be alerted to the news that their identities had been switched. The two of them had recognized the fact that such information was better shared than kept secret, especially if they were to be able to continue in their usual professions until the mystery might be solved. Had been solved, rather - at least, that was how the two of them preferred to phrase it.

Bashir slid into his usual chair; Garak took his usual side. To everyone else, it looked as if the doctor and Garak had playfully decided to indulge themselves in a little game of "do the opposite" that morning. Bashir ordered Tarkalean tea, scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, and yogurt. Garak treated himself to a tall mug of rokassa juice, not one but two grilled regova eggs slathered in yamok sauce, and boiled, sliced krintar root. He ate with relish, as did Bashir, oblivious to the stares of the other diners. It was only when Garak took a particularly large swig of the juice and then gave forth a very discreet burp that someone at a nearby table leaned over toward him and said, "Enjoying your meal, doctor?" 

"Why, yes, thank you," Garak answered pleasantly, before turning back to his companion and spearing another root segment with his fork. Bashir smiled at him. 

"I can't get used to this, you know. I try and try, but I just can't get used to watching myself talk, and eat, and walk..."

"It's not as if we have a choice. Oh, of course, we could separate, not see each other so often while this is going on..."

"No, I don't want to do that."

"Then we'll just have to pretend we're watching a very lifelike holovideo of each other." He took another sip of juice.

"How does it taste?"

"Hmm?" Garak asked, setting the mug down. "How does -? Like rokassa juice, of course. How should it taste?"

"Well, I always found the odor so vile that I'm surprised I can just drink it down like that."

"You're not 'drinking it down,' doctor - I am."

"Yes, but with my mouth. My human taste buds."

"It appears your human taste buds are obviously able to appreciate a decent morning beverage after all." Garak smiled back. 

Bashir, encouraged by his companion's unexpectedly cheerful mood, became a bit more emboldened. "Um... after the scans and the tests, I was wondering if we could go somewhere totally private to talk. Just talk. Just the two of us, alone. I've hardly been able to get my thoughts straight about all this. About what this is going to mean."

"I agree. We'll definitely have to talk. My quarters."

"You mean MY quarters?"

"I mean my quarters - Garak's quarters."

"Oh yeah. Your quarters. Of course."

"We definitely need to talk, doctor." Bashir nodded.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me again - I hope this isn't maybe weirding people out too much! Well, this chapter really starts to delve into the implications of what switching bodies would be like, but more overt details are yet to come. My overriding purpose is to draw some conclusions later about the nature of identity and what really matters, not only for society but for our heroes themselves. Just how would the relationship continue??

Garak and Bashir spent the afternoon lying comfortably side by side in bed. In separate beds. In the infirmary, while functional imaging scans were taken of their brain wave patterns. Dax supervised the sessions, reassured the two men, tried to make them laugh, and then encouraged them to relax for almost thirty minutes while she analyzed the results.

And analyzed, and analyzed. And, when she had finally finished examining every possible bit of information, the results turned out to be... inconclusive. Garak's brain seemed to flash with signals common to both his Cardassian physiology and Bashir's human thought patterns. Bashir's brain showed the same patterns in reverse. It was - Dax was forced to admit - maddening. Truly maddening. Just who was inside those bodies? Was it really Garak still in his own Cardassian shell, with Bashir tagging along as a sort of ephemeral thought-passenger? Or was it essentially Bashir, with Garak providing only the outward appearance? 

The implications were far-reaching and potentially disturbing. So far, because all of this was so new, Starfleet hadn't even begun to question whether Bashir could truly continue to serve while trapped in a completely different body. And would Garak, who was, at least nominally, still a Cardassian citizen, be subject to the same laws and regulations in the body of a thirty year old human male from Earth? 

And what about Starfleet's regulations? Taking the thought experiment as far as it could be taken, would Bashir - assuming the condition could not be reversed - age more quickly out of a CMO asignment because, after all, Garak was most likely twenty Earth years older than he was? Garak never admitted to precisely how much older he was than Bashir, especially not once their romance really blossomed. Bashir, likewise, never wished to unduly play up his "boyish" status - it was difficult enough earning the respect of his colleagues, much less a skilled Cardassian agent with many more years of life experience - and who, Bashir sometimes was forced to admit, enjoyed emphasizing that fact. 

Well, now the levels of experience were transferred into bodies of such differing ages - how was that going to play out? Despite the vastly more unusual circumstances - as if joined Trills weren't unusual enough - Dax couldn't help but see the parallels with her own situation. In a way. 

Some of those implications had already dawned on the two men as well; some hadn't, not quite yet anyway. When they were both finally allowed to go back to their quarters to eat dinner and sleep, their steps were heavy and their minds - both of them - all four of them? - were churning. They sat together at a table in Garak's quarters, eating a very light supper and drinking glasses of Bajoran springwine - a good compromise on which both a human and a Cardassian could agree. And they talked. And talked.

"I've observed myself thousands of times in mirrors, doctor - almost every day, in fact. That's a given, in my profession," Garak began.

"As a spy??"

"No, as a tailor, naturally. But I have to admit, I never realized... Did you know that I purse my lips sometimes, just a little bit, when I talk? At least when I'm speaking Standard."

"No you don't - well, not really."

"How would you know? You can't see yourself right now."

"But Garak, I've seen you speak thousands of times too - so whatever it is you do, it's very charming. I guess I never paid much attention to precisely how you say the words."

"Yes you do. You constantly stare at me. Stare directly into my eyes." Garak began to laugh.

"Why are you laughing? What's so funny?"

"Say I'm charming again."

"I'm charming again."

"You know what I mean - tell me I'm charming. Tell me you can't take your eyes off of me."

Bashir did so and Garak laughed even harder. 

"All right - come on. What is it?"

"Doctor - this isn't going to work! I can't sit here and listen to myself tell me how wonderful I am! It wouldn't even be so bad if it were just my voice, but then to have to watch myself say it too -" He leaned back in his chair and wiped his eyes, continuing to grin. Bashir smiled back indulgently. Finally - "Oh, all right. I'll return the favor. It's the least I can do. You, my dear Julian Bashir, are a breathtaking young man. You're absolutely gorgeous."

"I see what you mean." Bashir unsuccessfully tried to hide his smile behind his wine glass. "Although I'd prefer that to hearing myself criticize me."

"I think you do enough of that all on your own." 

"You do, do you?"

"Yes I do. I wish you thought as much of yourself as I do. You're quite extraordinary, Julian Bashir."

"You're quite extraordinary too, Elim Garak," Bashir proclaimed before collapsing against Garak and giggling uncontrollably. "You're right - there's no way we can keep doing this. If only I - you - didn't look so damned serious when you said it."

"But I AM serious. This isn't a joke. And besides... it's rather enjoyable, not knowing ahead of time what compliments about myself are going to come out of my own mouth." He took another sip from his glass. "And now - I really think we should get down to business." Bashir nodded. "How are we going to handle this? What questions do you have for me? Do you need me to show you how to dress yourself when you're alone?"

"Oh come on, Garak - not again. I believe I at least know how to do that."

"Really? So last weekend, when you spent ten minutes trying to undo my suit -"

"I was tired," Bashir lied, "and you were being so obtuse about everything. Playing hard to get - as usual."

"It did feel rather nice, you struggling like that... Well, anyway, whether that's true or not," Garak replied, "you still had no idea where the fasteners were. Would you at least let me show you a few garments now? Perhaps some of the simpler ones?" Bashir nodded again, somewhat grudgingly. "Although..." Garak hesitated, "it does take away a little of the mystery, doesn't it?"

"Well, don't forget, you'll have to figure out how my clothing works too." But then, he suddenly recalled, Garak was a tailor - of course he knew the inner construction of every type of garment on the station. 

"Oh please. I'll zip myself up into another one of your infant jumpsuits tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Really, doctor."

"Actually, Garak," Bashir realized, "you can't do that. You can't wear my Starfleet uniforms since you're not -"

"Thank you, universe!!" Garak burst out, and Bashir exploded with laughter. "I had totally forgotten that! So you're telling me that not only do I not have to wear that uniform, but I am forbidden to wear it?" Bashir didn't even trust himself to nod, so joyful was Garak at the prospect. "First thing tomorrow, you, my dearest, are getting a completely new wardrobe. And I won't even need to call you in for the fittings!"

"Just make sure I look good, Garak. And sophisticated. No bizarre colors or strange low-cut shirts..."

"Leave it all to me."

Bashir eyed the Cardassian shirts Garak had begun to retrieve from his closet and drape across the back of a chair. "That's what I'm afraid of doing."

"And as for bizarre colors..." Garak didn't finish. Some of Bashir's off-duty clothing choices were legendary, at least to him, but on the other hand, he was currently eyeing an orange-and-green tunic that would make himself, and thus Bashir, look like nothing so much as a tropical Risian fruit salad... He discreetly tucked the tunic under his arm and headed back to the closet with it.

The two talked for another hour, sometimes discussing what to do in the case of situations like the one that had occurred in the delivery room, other times simply laughing at the thought of the mischief they could both get into with unsuspecting individuals, at least until Sisko's message was disseminated to all on the station. It was good to ease the tension a little in that way, as the circumstance they were now facing was not the least bit amusing, and in fact was quite worrisome and even frightening if they thought too long about it. The evening wore on and Bashir, then Garak, began to yawn.

So. What to do next. They were not yet in the habit of spending every night in each other's room, or even most nights; shared nights were still somewhat of a special occasion, and this one certainly qualified as "special" but not necessarily as an occasion. Finally, Bashir, glancing over at Garak, gave voice to what they were both thinking.

"Garak... if you don't mind... I think I'm going to head back to my room now. This has been a pretty stressful day. For both of us. I'm exhausted."

"I agree, doctor. I think we both need to get some sleep... But please contact me immediately if you wake up and are feeling uneasy."

"I will. The truth is, I'm - well, I'm a little afraid of falling sleep and waking up again as - who knows who this time." Garak looked at him with concern.

"Then please stay here. I didn't realize you were -"

"No, no, I'll be all right. I'll feel better just curling up in my own bed. Good night, Garak."

"Good night, Julian," Garak answered, handing him an armful of shirts and trousers and walking with him to the doorway. "I'll see you in the morning - I'll come to your quarters for breakfast."

"Fine. Great." Bashir leaned forward for a fraction of an instant as if to kiss him, but then simply nodded at him and strode away down the corridor, Garak watching until he disappeared around the corner. He felt an unexpected pang in his heart, not simply because he was alone again and Bashir had gone, but because he never realized how sad he himself looked as he moved about the station. His shoulders, his very step, seemed to carry the weight of sorrows he thought he had long since left behind. How had Bashir even sensed that? Was his own body really that much of a mirror of his past?

And now that past was, in some bizarre fashion, able to be abandoned forever if fate so chose. He had now, for whatever unfathomable reason, been given the body of a young human male completely unrecognizable as Elim Garak. He could go anywhere he wished, start all over, make amends if he chose, seek revenge if he also chose... or simply wait for Bashir to realize how much he loved him and cared for him and wanted to be near him. He sighed. That prospect was obviously going to be a great deal more difficult now that he was trying to woo him in the mantle of Bashir's very own body. What a trick the universe had decided to play on him.

Well, at least he didn't have to wear the uniform. He headed off to his bed, unfastening the aforementioned uniform as he went.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the rating to M - I've been wavering back and forth on that, because this is never going to get very graphic, but it's going to imply a lot, here and there, and I just don't know if T is appropriate.

Bashir really meant to go straight to bed and go to sleep, the minute he got back to his room. He wasn't even going to bother with a shower - he wasn't going to bother doing anything that would emphasize the fact that he was housed in, and thus caring for, a body completely alien to him. If he hadn't already spent a fairly considerable amount of time, over the past few months, exploring that body in various states of undress, he had no idea what this experience would have been like. For that matter, what if he instead had somehow found himself inside O'Brien's body - or Dax's? The mind boggled.

It was probably best not to dwell on all the possibilities that might have been, and just concentrate on dealing with what was. After all, he could also just as easily have been beamed out into space, he supposed, or into some other equally incompatible setting, like a bulkhead or a potted plant... Such speculations caused his heart to race a little and he belatedly recalled that Garak wasn't quite back to his pre-Wire physical condition yet - he had better be careful and not tax the poor man's body with thoughts so panic-inducing.

And speaking of the poor man's body - Bashir arrived at his room, let himself inside, and absently reached for the front of his uniform, then remembered that he needed instead to unfasten the heavy tunic Odo had brought him, and into which Garak had assisted him earlier at the infirmary. Now that he was on his own, it was more difficult than he remembered to find all the catches on the underside of the flap; just why DID Garak feel the need to attach so many? Must have something to do with the "line" or the "drape" or whatever concerned the tailor in him. 

Bashir looked down at his hands. Smooth, gray, rather muscular, really... and marked here and there with the tiniest little evidences of Garak's profession - a miniscule scar from a needle poke, perhaps, or a mechanical scissors, another little mark that might have been a burn left by the seam melder... It caused him to wonder just what Garak was going to do to his, to Bashir's, hands. A surgeon's hands. He couldn't risk too many injuries that Garak would not see fit to dermally regenerate - the Cardassian had better be careful. Should he contact him and tell him so? No, that would be too odd, too intrusive - "Oh, Garak, I was just thinking - watch out with the fingers - and please don't bite your nails - patients don't like a doctor's hands to look so ragged and you never know when I'm going to get my body back."

My God, this was weird! And now, to add to the weirdness and take it even further than he had previously considered - he was now going to have to brush his teeth, wasn't he? Brush Garak's teeth? Couldn't go to bed without doing that - couldn't wake up with a taste in his mouth, or with bacteria there, that Garak would never have allowed. Couldn't do that to his friend, any more than he could decide to march up to Dukat - if he were even still on the station - and tell him exactly what he thought of him until Dukat slammed a fist into his stomach. Was that even how Cardassians fought? But until that happened, how freeing that encounter would be for him, for Bashir - how enjoyable it would be to shock that arrogant bastard and see the look on his face when Garak finally stood up to him. Really stood up to him.

Oh, but he'd only be able to shout at him in Standard... Yeah, too bad. Or maybe it was for the best, though - Dukat spoke Standard - quite well, actually - and it would make it appear that Garak had embraced his new life that much more completely. No more Kardasi - I'm with these people now.

No. No. NO! That line of thought was too dangerous even to daydream about - and besides, the whole station had probably already been alerted to the switch and that opportunity was gone forever. Bashir slipped off his boots and padded into the bathroom. Staring at Garak's face in the mirror was still just a little too disconcerting, so he grabbed a toothbrush and then switched off the lights. 

He did the best he could with the brush in that unfamiliar mouth - oh, it had always seemed familiar enough when he was exploring it from the opposite side, as it were, but this was strangely both much more and much less intimate. He wondered what sort of tooth-cleaning procedure the Cardassian normally followed - just how were his own teeth being cleaned at that moment? Did he really want to know? Or was he instead sipping rokassa juice again and letting THAT taste be the one that greeted him in the morning? 

What a thought. Bashir then retreated to the bedroom to finish undressing. Tunic off, undershirt off, then trousers opened and slipped off, then thermal leggings slid off... my God, what a ritual his Cardassian friend needed to go through, every morning and evening - and he was still wearing socks and briefs! The more layers he peeled away, the more chilled he felt, however, so he commanded the computer to raise the temperature in his room another five degrees, then ten. And then fifteen - no, back to ten, no sense in overdoing it. Then he flopped back down onto the mattress and crawled underneath the blanket - no, it was no good, he needed another blanket or two. He needed to feel surrounded by a cocoon of warmth. No wonder Garak always seemed to crave his arms around him - that was quite possibly the primary reason, despite the more affectionate one he was given. 

He also found that he needed to go to the bathroom one more time.

He was a little better this time at doing what he was supposed to do; when he was finished, he tucked himself in, the way Garak had instructed him later, and was about to head back to his bed when, on a sudden impulse, he turned the lights back on and stared at himself in the full-length mirror beside the door. And stared. He quickly divested himself of the briefs and stared some more. He had seen Garak naked dozens of times, touched him, even made love to him, but he had never FELT what it felt like when he touched him - he had never actually felt what Garak said he felt. How could he? But now he could. Now he WOULD. What an opportunity. He reached a tentative hand up to a neckridge. 

 

At the opposite side of the habitat ring, Elim Garak lay on his bed, naked, freshly showered, and attempting to coax himself to another climax that seemed much more reluctant to manifest itself than the first one had been. The room was warm but not hot, but Garak still felt a thin sheen of perspiration all over his body. Bashir's body. Bashir's long, elegant, lean and thoroughly enjoyable body. Oh, it wasn't that Garak didn't feel a sense of guilt and possibly even a little shame at what he was doing with his beloved Julian - certainly not with Bashir's knowledge and especially not with his permission.

But Garak had already begun to find the situation, the temptation, intolerable. After Bashir had left for the night, Garak had decided to treat himself to a hot - but not too hot - water shower, keeping the room in half-darkness so as not to find himself too disoriented by the strange sensation of lathering another man's body that now felt as if it were his own. 

Well, that had, indeed, been exactly the problem. It wasn't just another man's body he was lathering, it was his adored Julian Bashir's body, and he very quickly found himself granting much more attention to certain of Bashir's anatomical components than he had any real need then to grant.

If only the thing weren't right out there at all times, displayed so provocatively, so impossible to ignore or to - as would be the case with a Cardassian body - discreetly put away until it was required. No, there it was, and since it was there, it needed care and cleansing and a delicate touch that used to bring shudders of pleasure to his human companion - and now that Garak was, in effect, his own human companion, he found he was able to grant himself similar shudders of pleasure. It wasn't quite the same feeling as his own Cardassian body would provide; it was certainly more short-lived and somewhat less intense, but it was still very satisfying for all that and he desperately wanted to experience it again. 

But Bashir had always mentioned something about a refractory period, and here it was - this was the time when the doctor would have caressed and kissed and cuddled and devoted more attention to Garak himself - but now there was no one else, no one but an image in Garak's mind of beautiful eyes behind long lashes, and full lips that kissed him into a swooning puddle. Being now in possession of those eyes and those lips was not the same, but at least with his eyes closed and in a dark room, he could dream and imagine. And he did, until he fell sound asleep with his arms wrapped around his pillow. 

 

Next morning, breakfast. In Bashir's room. How odd, Garak thought, to see himself behind the door of Bashir's room as if he slept there all the time, was perfectly at home there - how odd to see himself bustling about, retrieving breakfast items from Bashir's replicator, settling him down into a chair and asking if he was comfortable... It was both exciting and somewhat depressing. This was not really his world - this was Bashir's world. Always would be, no doubt. He took a bite of his egg stew.

"Sleep well?" Bashir asked.

"Hmm?"

"I said, sleep well? No strange dreams?"

"Oh, no - no, nothing like that. I was out almost as soon as my head hit the pillow."

"Yeah, so was I." Bashir had found, to no great surprise on his part, that caressing one's own neckridges and eyeridges and even chest ridges did virtually nothing to stimulate oneself - if anything, the activity just made him feel even more awkward in his own new skin. It was almost better to go about his day not trying to remember that he was a Cardassian - but now, he'd be involuntarily placing his fingers on his neck or the back of it all day long to feel those odd segments and scales. He loved to feel them when they were attached to Garak. Loved producing such breathless reactions in his Cardassian companion. But when they were attached to his own body... not the same. 

He had, however, decided against trying to coax one other ridged part belonging to Garak out of its resting place; oh, he wanted to, but knew from experience that once the process started, it could possibly be a long time before it finished and he truly wanted to sleep. And there was the shyness factor too - should he TELL Garak if he planned to do something like that? God, no - what was he thinking? Tell Garak? What would that accomplish - would he receive more pointers in how to operate it, or would Garak instead decide the whole idea was just too bizarre to contemplate? He took a sip of his tea.

"Actually, doctor -" Garak was saying.

"Yes?" Bashir leaned forward.

"Actually - I wasn't totally honest with you." Bashir waited. Could Garak be implying - "I didn't sleep all that well. Every time I woke up, I checked whether I was still - you."

"I did the same thing."

They ate in silence for a few minutes. "I think the chief is spending every second going over the transporter assemblies." Bashir finally said. "And Dax is going over the logs. I'm sure they'll tell us instantly if anything at all turns up."

"I'm sure they will."

"I read Sisko's message to the station this morning. So now everyone has been told, or will tell anyone else who doesn't know. So I suppose we just... go back to work."

"I suppose so." Garak swallowed. "It's going to be very, very odd anyway, though, don't you think?"

"Oh, you already know what I think. You were there. I hope I don't have to deliver any more Bajoran babies by remote viewer today."

Garak nodded. 

"Garak?"

"Yes?"

"You didn't even comment once on my outfit. Is it okay?"

"It's perfectly fine." Garak glanced approvingly at the dark gray tunic and black trousers - Bashir had decided to project his identity in about the most bland and neutral, almost forbidding, way possible. Good. Garak, on the other hand, was wearing black trousers too but had paired them with an almost electric-blue shirt with silver piping that hugged his chest and practically reflected the light. Bashir had said nothing. That figured.

More silence. "I was cold last night," Bashir finally offered, looking away. 

Garak stopped, fork halfway to his lips. What was going on? "You were?"

"Yes - I hadn't quite expected that, even though of course I should have known... Anyway, it wasn't a big deal but I know you have thicker blankets than I do, and of course I had forgotten to get pajamas from you..."

"So you'd like some blankets and some pajamas for tonight?"

Bashir looked away again and pretended to be absorbed in pouring more tea. "I think what I'd really like..." Garak stared at him intently. "... I think what I'd like most is to just stay in your room tonight." Garak dropped his fork.

"Oh? Oh." He felt a little foolish at his first reaction. "You mean switch rooms."

"No."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my select (meaning small :-) but VERY much appreciated group of readers - this chapter won't quite get to what you may be *thinking* it will get to, quite yet - we have to see a little more of how Garak is getting along in Bashir's body first! But I think you'll still enjoy it - as did he! But for Bashir, what's the expression... "Not so much."

"This meeting of the Promenade Merchants Association is called to order." Quark paused dramatically. "First order of business: to approve the minutes from last month's meeting. Do I have a motion to approve the minutes that Doctor Bashir so kindly took for us?" Garak cleared his throat. "Pardon me - that Mr. Garak so kindly took for us?"

"So moved."

"Second."

"It has been moved and seconded to approve the minutes - any discussion?" There was none and the minutes were approved. "And now, I neglected to call the roll for this meeting first." He went through the attendance list; after he had finished, the owner of the Klingon restaurant raised his hand. "Yes, Mintagh?"

"Doctor Bashir cannot sit in for Mr. Garak - no substitutes at the meetings. This is a closed session. These are always closed sessions."

Garak sighed. Quark sighed. "Mintagh, it has already been explained to you numerous times," Quark dutifully explained again, "that this IS Mr. Garak - this is not Doctor Bashir." Mintagh grunted and shook his head. "And besides, what would Doctor Bashir have to gain by secretly sitting in on a meeting of the Promenade Merchants Association?"

"Spying for Garak, who needs to stay informed about the competition. Perhaps he feels we'll reveal something of value in his absence."

"But he's not absent - he's the one taking the minutes now! This is not Doctor Bashir!" Mintagh grunted more loudly. Garak turned to him.

"I know this has all been very difficult to believe. Doctor Bashir and I are having a difficult time with it ourselves, you can be sure. But until the mystery of what happened to us is solved and reversed, we've chosen to go about our normal lives as well as we can. I appreciate all of your understanding." He smiled and bowed to the table as a whole; the Bajorans in particular smiled back with, he regretfully noted, what could only be interpreted as pleasantly intentional misunderstanding as well. So be it. If they felt more comfortable with him in the guise of a familiar Federation officer, then what was the harm, after all - his business would certainly not suffer during this period, if their reaction was any indication.

A plate of cookies was passed around, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, Garak was offered one not once but several times - in the past, he had always had to grab, and grab quickly, before they disappeared into the hands and mouths of whoever was fastest on the draw. His padd beeped faintly as he entered the minutes: new and more consistent signage was being debated, new theft deterrent systems considered on the advice of security chief Odo, more vigilance against littering was urged, with pointed glances at Mintagh - worms were a particular problem as guests carried them in to-go cartons from his Klingon establishment and munched as they walked and shopped. 

Final order of business - the end-of-inventory-season banquet. Who would host? Garak had made the offer several times in the past few seasons, only to be rebuffed each time - this despite the fact that he always offered to pay a greater than equal share of the cost, as a gesture of good will. But this time, his offer was quickly and unanimously accepted. 

It was official, and the minutes confirmed that it was moved and seconded: 'Doctor Bashir' was going to host the banquet - alas, at least two of the merchants still had called him that. But, Garak reflected, he had only made the offer again because he knew it WOULD be accepted. The last thing he should probably be doing at a time like this was arrange such an event, but his stubborn Cardassian side wanted to see if, indeed, this time was going to be the charm. Of course it was. The Bajoran women around the table smiled sweetly at him and he smiled back in his best, most charming, most puppy-dog-Julian manner. He could almost feel the collective heart of the group melt, even the Klingon section. Most gratifying. This could, after all, indeed have a positive side.

 

"NO!" the young Bajoran girl screamed as Bashir attempted for the third time to get her to open her mouth so he could examine her throat. "No! Mama, make him go away!"

Her mother looked apologetically over at Bashir as she soothed her daughter. "It's not you, Mr. - Doctor Bashir. She's just upset about being here in general. It's nothing to do with -"

"I want Doctor Bashir! I don't want this Cardassian man to -"

"Shh, Lara, that's enough!" her mother admonished her, again looking apologetically at Bashir, with also, as Bashir couldn't help but note, the slightest bit of unease herself. He sighed and called for Nurse Jabara, who very quickly was able to calm and examine the patient while Bashir went into another room.

It wouldn't have been so bad - a child, after all, couldn't be expected to grasp the finer points of matter dissociation and transporter theory - but Lara was far from the only recalcitrant patient he had dealt with that day. Young, old, it didn't matter, and it likewise did not matter that all of them had already heard the news from Sisko. In fact, there had been not one, not two, but four cancellations so far, all with the same excuse - they were feeling better and would reschedule later if it was necessary. How an Andorian, who had only two days ago come down with a bout of four-week blue fever, could suddenly be feeling better was beyond him, but he planned to send his assistant on house calls to visit the cancellations anyway.

And, at least that day, any sort of physical exam or procedure that involved more personal contact or observation was completely out of the question. Completely. He would no more be permitted to perform a gynecological examination than he could set up a lemonade stand in the middle of Gul Dukat's bridge. He felt sorry for his assistant, who had never been so much in demand, while he himself puttered around the office and helped out with more mundane tasks or analyses.

But all of that was, after all, to be expected. People were at their most vulnerable, always, when they were in a doctor's office; they were already frightened, or in pain, or nervous, and so anything that would serve to increase those feelings was logically not going to be welcome. 

It wasn't personal. How could they really know that Bashir still retained all of his medical ability? How did they know that while Bashir might be the one talking with them, Garak's hands weren't the ones suturing the wound or administering the injection? They certainly looked like Garak's hands, after all... And things would have been at least a little bit easier if he had somehow been able to retain his own voice, but that was impossible too - he had Garak's mouth, Garak's vocal cords, so the only thing that could possibly change was the accent, and that was not enough to thoroughly convince his patients in the end.

The real eye-opening experience, though, was when Bashir had walked over to the Promenade for lunch. He sat alone in the replimat - Garak was busy in his shop - and while, again, the station inhabitants knew of the switch, not a single one sat down to join him. Not one. 

He received more than a few curious looks, of course, and several people briefly spoke with him, but there were always visitors passing through DS9 too and those visitors regarded him only with curiosity or even thinly-veiled hostility. He could almost swear he heard a "Cardie" whispered at one point, but when he turned to look, no one met his eyes. If this was what Garak went through, every day of his life... and without even the "advantage" of having most people aware that he was really a human inside. How did he do it? How could he stand it? It was going to be such a consolation to join Garak later for dinner and compare notes, he reflected, as he sipped his tea and dolefully watched the bustle of lunchtime activity.

 

"God, what a relief!" Bashir exclaimed as he threw himself into a chair. "What a damned relief. I thought this day would never end." Garak emerged from the bedroom in a soft long-sleeved shirt and pajama pants. "How did you do today, Garak? How did your meeting go?"

Garak could tell that things had not gone particularly well for his human companion, so he diplomatically danced around the subject. "All right, I suppose. People are still having a lot of trouble getting used to this situation."

"Oh God, yes," Bashir groaned, rubbing his eyes. "You wouldn't believe how rude people have been to me. You absolutely would not believe it... Or, on the other hand, I suppose you would." He looked up into Garak's face. "You never tell me just how difficult this must be for you. Being Cardassian here, I mean. I never really had any idea."

"Oh, trust me, doctor, it does have its bad days. But I try to make the best of things and assume that most people are not really vicious, just ignorant." There. That sounded appropriate. The one thing he could not tell the doctor was that, regrets about the loss of his Cardassian physique aside, this day had been one of the best he'd ever had on the station. 

He did not even have to deceive - most people already knew exactly what had occurred but either chose to forget it, or really did forget it - he was treated with more courtesy and more friendliness than he had ever been treated on DS9. From his newfound acceptance at the meeting to the way the sales and future orders accumulated throughout the day in his shop, it had been a very good day indeed. Two teenage girls had even stopped by just to watch him through the window as he sewed - when he finally signaled to them, they giggled but didn't retreat.

He had also enjoyed the way Bashir's long fingers could ply fabric and the various tools of his trade - no wonder he was such a good surgeon. He, Garak, had better take very good care of those hands. Those hands which, at that moment, were lightly pressing the doctor's ridged shoulders from behind, as Bashir yawned and closed his eyes. Poor man. What a way to discover all the ramifications of being a Cardassian in Bajoran/Federation territory. If only he could console him in some way, some way more effective than just dinner... Garak closed his eyes too and pressed a little harder, until he was gratified to hear a soft moan escape Bashir's lips. In Garak's voice, but he tried to ignore that. 

"Julian..."

"Garak?"

"It's been a rough day for both of us." He felt Bashir nod. "What do you say about - postponing - dinner and just going to bed?" He felt Bashir tense under his fingers.

"I - I think I'd like that." Good. Good tension.

"So would I. You were going to stay anyway, after all. Come to bed."

"Are you sure? Can we?" Bashir, uncertainly blinking at him, turned to look into his face.

"Yes. Let's go." Garak offered Bashir his hand and helped him up; they both took a deep breath and headed for the bedroom.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, they are about to find out - could they? SHOULD they? Or more to the point, how would they? 
> 
> And one more hint regarding the rest of the story - remember the old saying, "If at first you don't succeed..."

Bashir had never been quite that nervous, entering the alcove which housed Garak's bed - not even the very first time he had joined him there. He supposed that being inside the Cardassian's actual body had something to do with it. Which was, of course, putting it mildly. In fact, if DS9 weren't so remote, so far away, almost beyond the frontier, he had no doubt that Federation scientists would already have been clamoring to talk to Garak and himself. As it was, O'Brien was spending nearly every waking hour at the transporters and on the computer, dismantling and testing every conceivable component - but had found nothing, absolutely nothing, out of the ordinary. 

The transport sequence itself that had brought Garak and Bashir back to the station from the runabout was impeccable, totally free of all glitches, bugs, ghosts and chirps - it was almost as if DS9's transporters could be used as a model for others. This would normally have been a source of great pride to the station's chief engineer - except for the unfortunate fact that there were now two post-transport individuals walking around the station whose bodies and minds had somehow been reversed. Minor detail - which would definitely give pause to anyone hoping to base a new system on the one used and so carefully maintained at DS9.

Now, of course, the accident seemed to have occurred during the night, some time AFTER the initial transport, while the two men were sleeping. Surprisingly, this was not as improbable as it may have seemed - the process of transporting used a great deal of energy, energy that could sometimes find its way into other systems or linger in the bodies of the individuals - but so far, such residual energy had chiefly taken the form of random electric shocks or tingling sensations. To have the system totally re-run the sequence, and in the opposite pattern this time, was far outside O'Brien's experience, and he could find no evidence for it no matter how hard he searched. 

The runabout still lay docked some distance from the station by tractor beam, but he had absolutely no time to go back to it and continue his analysis of the energy surges that had also been occurring during that same timeframe. They must be related in some way, he logically surmised, but since, as far as he knew, the runabout's transporters themselves had not been utilized in any way, then the key had to lie in the station's own transporters. If not there, then where?

And there was nothing Bashir or Garak could do to help, either - O'Brien dared not run any physical test whatsoever until he could be sure that the results wouldn't be even worse. Bashir, in fact, had initially proposed a re-transport, obviously to see if that was all it would take to reverse the effects, but Dax then brought up various horrifying scenarios, all the way from two minds in one body to both bodies returning lifeless, the consciousness in both of them simply removed. It was all more than terrifying, and brought the phrase about settling for "the devil you know" to Bashir's mind quite often. 

"The devil he knew," indeed - the devil he knew was a Cardassian man whom he found intriguing and intelligent and attractive beyond belief - and he was still the same Cardassian despite being trapped now in a new shell - would it really matter all that much, after all? It was still Garak's essence, Garak's personality - GARAK. A little voice in the back of his head was screaming that it damned well would matter, and matter a great deal, simply because of the precise identity of the shell, but Bashir pushed that voice aside and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Garak sat next to him and tentatively placed an arm around his shoulders. "I'm not used to this," he murmured.

"Not used to what?"

"Well... forgive me, but your shoulders are much broader now - I'm used to being able to pull you much closer!" He smiled.

"I rather like the muscles - your muscles."

"Thank you. I suppose I like them too." 

Bashir snaked an arm around Garak's narrow waist. "My God, am I really that thin?" 

Garak nodded. "But perhaps not for long. I believe I'll be putting a little weight on you, my love - I must have eaten a dozen cookies today."

My love? Garak seldom used that expression, probably because Bashir himself was a little hesitant about using it. He liked it. He liked it a great deal, actually, even though it was his own voice saying it - the odd accent helped distance him somewhat. He decided to try it out for himself too - purely as an experiment; yes, that was a perfect reason - an experiment.

"Well, I'm just glad we're not too upset to eat. No sense starving oursel- each other." The strangeness of the situation again hit him. "My love." Bashir felt Garak glance over at him and then bring his lips close to his face. 

"I'm still having a little trouble hearing myself say that, you know." Garak nuzzled against his cheek.

"Say -?"

"Love. Calling myself my love, I mean."

Bashir smiled and turned his face to meet Garak's. "Well, get used to it because I'm not avoiding the word just because we're -" Garak suddenly kissed him hard and took his breath away for a moment. Just for a moment - the two then separated and stared bleakly at each other.

"Julian - I..."

"I know."

"I mean, I really tried not to think about..."

"I know." He tightened his arm around Garak's waist. The two leaned against each other in silence for a while. Then - "This is probably the most stupid and uncomfortable joke I could make right now... but I think there has never in history been a more appropriate occasion to say it. 'It's not you, it's me.'" Garak gave him a rueful smile.

"You understand, I just can't kiss myself, Julian. I mean not in that way."

"I can't either. Myself, that is. Although..."

"Yes?" Sudden hopeful flurry of interest.

"Although... we could keep our eyes closed. Couldn't we? Or, even better - what about a completely dark room? Would that work?"

Garak's hazel eyes narrowed in thought. "I suppose it's worth a try." His expression grew determined. "Computer - all lights out." The room darkened except for the normal faint glow of security panels illuminating the walls near the doorway. "Computer - extinguish security lights."

*"Not permitted."*

"Not permitted... Computer, medical override, Bashir One Alpha. Extinguish security lights." Bashir gaped at Garak, who gave him a brief, guilty look in return. The security lights stayed on. 

*"Request denied."*

"Why?"

*"Emergency lights extinguished only at the order of the station commander."* 

"That figures." Garak sighed. "Doctor, rest assured, I do NOT possess Commander Sisko's security code. I value my continued presence on this station too greatly. But..." He thought for a moment, then barked a sentence in Kardasi - the lights all went out and the room was plunged into near-total darkness except for the faintest wisps of starlight outside the window. 

"What was that? What did you do?" Bashir asked as he leaned back onto the mattress.

"I just remembered that Gul Dukat was once the commander of this station." He stretched out next to Bashir and again took him into his arms. 

The two of them began to kiss, with slightly more success, but they still struggled with great effort to ignore the physical reminders of their own identities. It had been many years since Garak had so passionately kissed a Cardassian male, so every time he felt the facial ridges under his lips, every time his hands caressed Bashir's shoulders and his fingers worked their way between the scales there, he experienced a subtle but persistent wish to stop what he was doing. 

Bashir, for his part, had occasionally kissed human males in the past but never with the knowledge that a Cardassian male, his Cardassian lover, was in the same room with him; he no longer had any interest in the sensation of human lips against his, a human body next to his. He wanted Garak's body. 

"Garak?"

"Hmm?" Garak paused but kept his face buried in Bashir's neck.

"Maybe it would help if you talked to me... Tell me something, anything. What do you want me to do for you?"

"Well, let's see... I think you already know I adore that beautiful mouth of yours."

"Mmm-hmm," Bashir mumbled, trying mightily to suppress the thought that he was praising his own beautiful mouth. Just concentrate on the words, he berated himself - just concentrate on the words, not the voice. 

"I think you already know what I'd like you to do with that mouth," Garak growled playfully.

The words, the words, the words, not the voice, Bashir frantically chanted in his head. He nodded, then said "mmm-hmm" again. Garak had begun to unfasten his clothing for him, and Bashir wriggled out of the tunic and then, placing his hands on Garak's waist, slowly slid down his body, kissing as he went. That was easier - it was easier to kiss a shirt than actual, bare skin, bare skin that belonged to him - But then Garak leaned down and began to slip out of his trousers. Bashir abruptly sat up.

"I can't. I'm sorry, I can't. Not even in the dark. I can't do that to my own - I mean, a hand is one thing, but..."

"I understand, doctor," Garak sighed. He called out another command in Kardasi and the emergency lights switched back on. "I felt almost every second as if I myself was now about to -"

"I get it." Silence. Bashir flopped back down next to Garak. "So... what do we do now?"

"Sleep, doctor. Just sleep. Unless you still want dinner?" Bashir shook his head. "All right. I'll get some pajamas for you." Garak was already in pajamas. He waited while Bashir prepared himself for bed, and the two of them drew the blankets around themselves and nestled together under them, Bashir's head on Garak's chest. 

Bashir, being more slight of build, was not usually the one being nestled against but was, rather, the one doing the nestling. But since it was actually still Garak in his accustomed position - well, it somehow still worked. It worked perfectly. True, a little more shifting of weight was necessary, a strategic reshuffling of positions here and there, but it worked. Bashir fell asleep, warm and contented, Garak immediately following after placing a quick kiss on the top of his beloved's Cardassian head.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The weekend's here, it's time for fun" - well, for Garak, anyway...

The next two days passed much as the previous two had done - there was work to do, meals to share (Garak now joined Bashir in the replimat each time he dined, after hearing the doctor's melancholy story of isolation there,) and more scans to endure. With no clue as to how to reverse the effects of the accident, O'Brien and Dax were now grasping at anything, including the theory that the two men had picked up a virus of some sort which confused the computers.

But there was nothing. There was also nothing, or next to nothing, going on in Garak's bedroom, even though the two continued to share his bed for warmth and reassurance, more than anything. Oh, they indulged in a kiss or two (in the dark, of course,) and they always slept wrapped up in a mutual embrace - but it was relatively easy to hug oneself, not so easy to think of oneself as an object of passion. 

Garak, unaccustomed to and very pleased at having more time alone with Bashir than he had ever been granted in the past, dearly wanted to spend more and more of it telling his beloved companion just how much he meant to him. But every time he did so, every time his language began to veer toward the most sincere and most heartfelt declarations of devotion, Bashir would begin to giggle. In Garak's voice, which made the Cardassian even more annoyed.

"Look, the problem is, I don't see YOU when you're saying those things!" Bashir had tried to console him. "I'm sitting here in my own skin, thinking I'm still me. But then I look at you, and you're me too, and... well, let's just say it's difficult to hear that I give meaning to my own life and that I'm the one I always hoped to find someday. I can't help it - I just can't keep from smiling..."

Garak pouted and began to climb off the bed; Bashir pulled him back. "I'm sorry! I'm really sorry. I love what you're saying to me, I really do. It's wonderful to hear all this. It's just that, well... maybe we should write it rather than say some of it."

"Fine," Garak petulantly replied, nevertheless climbing back into the bed. "Fine. I'll begin keeping a journal for you."

"I didn't say anything about a journal - maybe we could just leave each other little messages here and there." He snuggled against Garak's side. "What would you say in the first one?" Garak didn't answer. "Okay, I'll start, then. Dear Garak, you're very brave to go through this with me. I'm sure it's not easy, being mistaken for a silly, awkward, naive Starfleet doctor all the time." 

Garak closed his eyes. What a kiss he had experienced that day - a woman had come into the shop after spotting him through the door panel, exclaimed, "Julian Bashir! How dare you keep avoiding me! Do you know how happy I was when I heard we were stopping here?" and kissed him full on the lips, even bending him backward over the worktable. What else could he do but hang on and enjoy the ride?

"I'm sure you're counting every second until you can be Cardassian again. I want you to know I'm doing the best I can to keep you out of trouble." Earlier that day, two Nausiccans had spied Bashir as he walked back to the infirmary from his quarters and screamed, "Hey, tailor! Tailor!! We're talking to you! Get back here so we can tear that smile off of that smart mouth of yours!" Bashir hadn't even looked back, much less replied, just gathered his wits and ran for it as the two laughed uproariously behind him.

"Doctor - do you know a Haruka someone-or-other?"

"Yes - why do you ask?" Bashir was quite surprised.

"She says hello."

"Oh! She's here??" Garak nodded. "Great! I'll have to find her. We went to medical school together. And as long as we're on the subject - have you had any trouble with a couple of Nausiccans recently?" Garak guiltily avoided his eyes.

"Nothing out of the ordinary for Nausiccans."

"Well, next time, be a little more careful about what you say to them. Not everyone knows I'm you - you're me - whatever."

"Yes, doctor." They began to doze. Bashir, careful not to disturb Garak too much, scratched absently at a neckridge; they had been bothering him more and more, the past two days, as had the scales on the back of his neck. When he examined them in the mirror, all he could discern was a little redness, a little flaking. Nothing too serious. So he took an especially long shower each day - he always showered in his own quarters - and paid extra attention to the areas, soaping them quite thoroughly. 

He buried his face in Garak's hair, and picked up the faint scent of Garak's Cardassian shampoo - Bashir had used it occasionally in the past and found that it left his hair quite frizzy - no wonder he was looking especially curly lately, although he did appreciate the lemon-like scent. He idly wondered how much time Garak spent on things like shampooing, now that he had more hair, and shaving, now that he had whiskers. He reached out and felt Garak's face - a little stubbly. 

It made sense, seeing that Garak had never needed to shave in his life - Cardassian males, virtually all of them anyway, had no hair follicles on their faces. But a man as careful about his appearance as Garak was would quickly master the art of shaving, especially after Bashir had shown him the proper technique, their first evening after the accident. So could it be that...

"Garak?"

"Hmm?" he answered sleepily.

"You're not - I mean, why aren't you shaving?"

"Hmm." Garak rolled over onto his other side.

"You're not, are you?"

"Thought it would be fun," Garak mumbled from under the blanket.

"Thought what would be fun?"

"To grow a beard. Feels odd, but I like it."

"You might have asked me."

Garak didn't answer. Bashir sighed and rolled over, too, until he could again put his arms around Garak's waist. Well, one arm, anyway - the other hand was busily scratching a scale on the back of his own neck.

 

The weekend finally arrived. Quark's bar was slated to do a rousing business that Saturday night, and he couldn't help humming a variation of his advertising jingle as he scurried about the premises. "The weekend's here, it's time for fun, so come to Quark's, don't walk, RUN!" And there was indeed a great deal of running he needed to do. On Level One, a darts tournament was going to be taking place at the exact same time that the Promenade Merchants Association banquet was scheduled for a room on Level Two. 

Both Garak and Bashir, of course, were involved in the preparations and the anticipation for these two events, Bashir because he was highly favored to win the tournament with his partner O'Brien, and Garak because he was hosting the banquet and was thus in charge of the menu, the table decorations, and the prizes. 

Nothing too elaborate on any of those counts - it was always politically wisest to choose Bajoran dishes for dinner, while simple floral arrangements of daisies and lilies of the valley would brighten but not overpower the room, and the prizes, one at each place setting, were going to be Delavian chocolate packets bearing the insignia of the Promenade Merchants Association in the same design as the new signage the group had agreed upon. Very clever, very appropriate - very much like Garak to think of that. He was rather pleased with himself as he arrived early to help Quark set up.

Bashir was not so pleased with himself. Unbeknownst to him, O'Brien had been planning to cancel up until almost the last minute, but felt too much remorse to actually go through with it - after all, his friend was having a rough time and the last thing he wanted to do was add to the stress and unhappiness. Dax could continue the work on the transporters for a few hours without him. So he agreed to meet Bashir for a late lunch at Quark's and to get a little practice in before the evening's elimination rounds. That was perfectly legal; in fact, the only question would be whether there was indeed a board free for use. Luckily, there was, and Bashir and O'Brien staked out a table right near it.

They ate in relative silence. They had seen quite a lot of each other during all the recent tests and scans, so there wasn't much new to say anyway, but in truth, O'Brien had trouble thinking of what he could possibly talk to Garak about - then he remembered with a start that of course this wasn't Garak, this was Bashir, and the cycle in his mind would begin all over again. If only Bashir didn't gaze at him so often with those penetrating blue eyes; if only his voice didn't carry such Garak-like inflections as he debated him, during the few times they actually found something to debate. It was indeed awkward. 

But awkward didn't begin to describe Bashir's performance once they began to practice. His aim was not only off, it was practically off the station, and the more frustrated he became, the worse he played. In addition, at least once every thirty seconds, his hand would travel to his neck or chest or shoulders to scratch. And scratch. He was wearing a tunic with a particularly high neckline, but O'Brien could still see that the ridges just under the fabric had faint red marks all over them, from scratches or from blood, he couldn't tell and didn't ask. 

Was Bashir possibly allergic to - Garak? O'Brien shuddered at the thought - there was nothing much he could do to help his friend if that were the case, but he certainly didn't blame him.

 

At the bar, Garak stood to greet the early arrivals for the banquet's cocktail hour. He was dressed in a dark turquoise, collarless suit he had specially made for the occasion; it highlighted the hazel of his eyes, and the sprig of lilies of the valley peeking out of a breast pocket added just the right note of contrast. He was startled when the Bajoran owner of the flower shop walked up to him and placed a quick kiss on his cheek before admiring the placement of the bouquet. A kiss on his cheek - never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that. And yet she knew full well who he was - she, in fact, was one of the few who didn't persist in referring to him as 'Doctor Bashir.'

"Doctor Bashir!" Mintagh the Klingon bellowed. "Join me in a glass of Romulan ale. We'll toast our mutual enemy and drink to another successful year."

"Romulan ale is illegal, gentlemen," Quark eavesdropped, while dusting off a bottle he had kept hidden under the bar. "It'll cost you ten credits extra per drink."

"My friend Doctor Bashir is paying," the Klingon bellowed again, slapping Garak on the back. Garak stumbled forward but kept the smile plastered on his face. Mintagh in the past had never even wanted to sit next to him, much less share a drink with him - Mintagh had always, always, referred to him as 'the Cardassian spy,' or some other more descriptive and colorful term. But now they were laughing, talking, sharing ideas - Mintagh had agreed to let Garak advertise on his napkins if Garak would, in turn, stock more Klingon fabrics and offer discounts to Klingon referrals. A win-win situation. Once in a while, Garak couldn't help but glance over at Bashir and O'Brien while talking with the other arrivals - what he saw was not encouraging; the doctor looked more than a little uncomfortable and there was a look of distress on his face. But then other merchants stepped up to claim Garak's attention and the moment was over. 

Much the same contrast occurred at both the banquet and the tournament. Garak was truly a gracious and gregarious host, and had never found his witty asides and bon mots more appreciated and more enjoyed; he sat at the head of the table and proposed toast after toast, all of which were greeted with enthusiasm. While most of his colleagues had finally started referring to him by his real name, he however couldn't help noticing that they were treating him very much as they would treat Doctor Bashir - if the doctor had suddenly opened a store and become much more outgoing, that is. 

It was, really, as if Garak had now found a way to combine the best aspects of both worlds - he was as clever and articulate as he had always been, but instead of sharing the physical appearance of the despised and disagreeable Gul Dukat, he now had the gentle, kind visage of the respected Doctor Julian Bashir to ease his way into the group. 

Bashir, one level below, was having the opposite experience. "Hey, look - O'Brien's brought along a ringer," someone ominously intoned as Bashir stumbled over a foot that was suddenly thrust into his path. "An itchy ringer too" - Bashir's hand almost never left his neck now. O'Brien opened his mouth to protest, but someone else from his department tried to help and save him the trouble.

"That's Doctor Bashir, you idiot. You remember the accident." There was a snort of half-hearted acknowledgement. "Let him play."

"Chief," Bashir muttered under his breath, "it really doesn't matter. I don't want to disappoint you, but my aim is way off - my hands and my arms don't feel right any more. Or maybe it's my shoulders. I can't seem to adjust for any of it - you saw me practicing." 

O'Brien felt a guilty wave of relief wash over him, but he tamped it down and said, "Nonsense - we're here, we've paid, we're going to play. They can damned well just get used to you - you didn't ask for this."

"No, I didn't, but neither did they. Still..." At that instant, Bashir's earlier tormentor, ostensibly throwing a practice shot, managed to hit him directly in the seat of his Cardassian pants. "Oops," he sneered, just as O'Brien lunged for him, Bashir trying to hold his friend back and pleading for calm in his measured Cardassian voice. It didn't work. Bar fight. Again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the hurt, the comfort. Does it really matter, after all, whose body needs the comfort?

Bashir sat disconsolately in Odo's office, sporting a new, only mildly painful, but nevertheless very colorful bruise on his eyeridge - predominantly dark gray but with hints of purple and even pale pink. Garak sat next to him, in no mood to admire the beautiful colors on his own brow, his arm lightly resting on Bashir's arm, his eyes focused on Bashir's downcast head.

"This is completely unacceptable, Odo," Garak fumed, never turning his gaze from Bashir. "Not only can Doctor Bashir not even walk about the station without being accosted, but there's the added consideration that those people at Quark's tonight thought they were attacking ME. I had believed I was safe here. It appears that I'm not, and the doctor has to be the one to suffer for it." Odo gave him just about as rueful and apologetic a look as he ever granted anyone. 

"We were not aware that things were becoming so difficult for Doctor Bashir. We had thought the situation since the accident was under control." He paused. "You've never come to me with stories of this much hostility, Garak. But -" he added, at Garak's expression of protest, "I'm not blaming you or saying it was your responsibility in that case. These individuals will be detained here while I investigate - we're planning on sending at least one of them back to Bajor."

Bashir looked up. "I really don't know if that's necessary - it was an unusual situation, Odo, and of course any time you mix alcohol with emotions like that, this is the result." He reached up to scratch - again - at his neck; Garak's eyes followed his hand with interest.

"Well, you're not going to have to worry about this sort of thing any longer. I'm going to have one of my security team escort you about the sta-"

"Odo," Bashir sighed, "you don't have a security team escorting Garak around. You shouldn't have to do that. He should be able to go where he wants to go, and whenever he wants to. Just as I do - or did. Just as I always believed he was able to do." His fingers began to search for the edge of his collar, but this time Garak's hand closed over his.

"Thank you, Odo," Garak said, beginning to rise, his voice suddenly brisk and efficient. "I believe the doctor and I are in agreement in wanting this incident settled. I understand there are procedures you have to follow, but let's not make things worse than they already are. If you need any more information from us, we'll be in the infirmary. And now - we'll leave you to your work." He bowed and hurried Bashir into the corridor; Odo, puzzled at the sudden change in mood, watched them go.

Once they were alone, Garak put his arm around Bashir's shoulders as they walked. "I'm truly sorry about all of this," he began.

"Garak! It's not your fault! How could you possibly know that some racist Bajoran was going to -"

"I don't mean just about that. I also mean about you. I didn't realize how uncomfortable you were. I should have expected this. Seen it coming."

"What are you talking about?" Bashir, avoiding his eyes, freed one arm from under Garak's embrace to scratch.

"That. I mean that. My dear doctor, just how long have you been doing that? Suffering like that?"

"You mean the itching... I didn't really think much about it at first. I suppose it started almost since the switch, or whatever we're calling it. Maybe a day or two later." He stopped to rub at his shoulder, covered by his tunic. "But my God, Garak, how can you stand it? I itch all the time - is it the dry air in this place? I think I'm scratching little holes all over you."

"Oh, my poor, dear friend... I never even thought of anything like this. Never even considered it, or I would have warned you." Bashir gave him an inquiring look. "And how did you keep that so secret while we slept? It must have been absolute torture." A nod. "Anyway, you're right, it's partially the cold and the dryness, but Cardassia itself can be dry. It's actually more likely the soap you're using - I never wash with your type of soap. Well, not very often, anyway." He grinned despite himself at a memory, as they walked a few steps further. "I also have to tell you that it's partly, ah, probably most likely hormonal too. Believe it or not, you're beginning to shed."

"Oh God."

"I'm afraid so. Stress can do it, and then we have no idea, really, how your body is being regulated now, and the fact that you're irritating your - my - skin every time you bathe... Well, put it all together and I have a very sick man on my hands." They reached the infirmary and Garak guided him inside. 

It seemed entirely natural, entirely appropriate to the small staff there that Garak was helping administer the dermal regeneration to Bashir's temple, and equally as appropriate that he requested the use of a locked hydrotherapy room for the following two hours. After all, except for his accent and his civilian suit, for all intents and purposes he WAS Doctor Bashir to them at that moment. No deliberate attempt at deception at all but nevertheless quite easily deceiving. That indeed was Garak.

He asked the nurse for help in locating a particular type of cleansing gel; when it wasn't found in the supply area, he was able to replicate what he needed and then led Bashir through an anteroom and into the hydrotherapy room. As the tub began to fill, he gently pulled the doctor to him and began to undress him. As he did so, he idly contemplated how best to keep Bashir from continuing to wear the high-collared, dark and rather severe tunics that he seemed to be favoring - there were so many more comfortable and softer alternatives in Garak's wardrobe. 

It was almost as if Bashir was projecting his fear of the situation into the colors and styles he was choosing - or was he trying to look as forbidding as possible to ward off harassment? 

When he had the doctor fully undressed and had wrapped him in a towel for warmth, he turned and stripped off his own clothing next. Bashir watched him, mildly curious at what he was doing, but not speaking. In fact, it was rather heartbreaking for Garak to witness the way he seemed to be huddling inside the towel, waiting for Garak to care for him. The impression being subtly conveyed, in fact, was as if he were giving up, beginning to lose what little enthusiasm he had formerly possessed for living in and caring properly for the Cardassian body he had been granted. 

No, which had been inflicted on him, Garak corrected himself. Well, he was now going to do his best to provide that care, care he now realized should have been provided all along - by him, as the only Cardassian whom Bashir had ever really known. By him, as the only Cardassian whom Bashir had ever loved and who loved him back with an almost grateful devotion.

He took Bashir's hand and slowly led him into the tub, murmuring softly to him as he did so, "Don't slip - there, just sit down and lie back - it's not too hot for you, is it?" Bashir shook his head and wordlessly complied; it was, truthfully, a little too hot for Garak now, but only a little, and he hoped he'd adjust to the temperature fairly quickly since the doctor had always done so in the past, the very few times so far that they had bathed together. 

Still, he'd have to remember that in the future, if and when they ever got back to their old lives, and not surprise his friend with such a sudden jolt of heat - better to have him ease into it. Better to show even more courtesy to the man who had always shown him nothing but courtesy, and a wish to take full account of his Cardassian culture and his Cardassian needs. And what was his reward, now that he himself had been forced to join that culture in as dramatic a way as could be imagined? Pain, and hostility, and isolation. It was too bad, Garak thought, that he couldn't have eased him into this entire situation as well - and then quickly and painlessly eased him out of it. 

But this was not the time for regrets - this was the time for comfort. The water came up to their shoulders, and Garak began to draw Bashir to his chest but felt him pull back. "Are you sure you want to?" Bashir asked. "Doesn't it seem too strange, being in here with - yourself?"

"No... no, not at all, my love. Does it seem strange to you?" Garak continued to gently coax him forward.

"I'm beyond caring any more. I just want all this to be over."

"I'm so sorry I haven't helped you enough yet. I could have been doing so much more. I didn't realize this would be quite so difficult for you. Please forgive me, Julian." He placed one hand behind Bashir's neck, and the doctor let his head flop down until it rested on Garak's shoulder. 

"Oh, it's all right," he answered, voice muffled against the wet skin. "How could you know? Exactly how many times has anyone ever switched bodies with you?" 

They both smiled at that, after which Garak picked up a soft sponge, soaked it in the water, squeezed some of the bath gel onto it, and began to lather Bashir's neck and shoulders. "There... there, now," he murmured, "doesn't that feel better?" Bashir nodded against him. "Just relax and close your eyes. This is going to moisten the scales and keep them supple so they won't irritate you any more." He felt Bashir smile again.

"They never irritated me before, Garak. I always rather liked them. Liked them a lot." Then, shyly, "They're incredibly sexy, you know. I mean especially on you. But they're hard to take care of, aren't they?"

"Not if you know what to do for them - you must have been drying them out. Not your fault, of course," Garak quickly added. "Not your fault at all, my precious baby." He was really overdoing it now, but he didn't care - he clucked and soothed and caressed until he had Bashir practically melting against him. 

And for the first time, the very first time in all the days since the accident, he truly felt it was Bashir in his arms, there in the bath, needing him and relying on him to make things better. No longer a passenger in Garak's body. No longer the doctor, the expert, the symbol of the strength of the Federation - he was now a man who was hurting and alone just as Garak had been, all those years ago, when he had suddenly glimpsed the chance for a better future. When he had suddenly been given someone to love him and to care about him and to see the man inside of him.

"Shh, my love," he said as he kissed Bashir's gray cheek and stroked the back of his head, "just relax. This is all going to work out. I'm going to help you from now on. You've done so much for me - please let me help you now. Let me take care of you." He massaged a loose scale off of Bashir's neck, very gently so his lover wouldn't feel it. "Let me help you..." he murmured again. "It's going to be all right. Just rest now... shh... Just rest."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things could start to get awkward here, but not graphic... Way back when the series was on the air, the first fan fiction appeared that came up with some of the sexual "facts" about Cardassians. My thanks to whoever first invented those great ideas - they're so accepted now as to make us forget that the series never even implied any of these things!

It was really too bad that the doctor's quarters weren't somehow attached to the infirmary by a door or a passage, Garak mused - it was just too bad that the two of them had gotten themselves so relaxed, so contented, so warm, so sleepy... and eventually had to climb out of the water, dry themselves off, get fully dressed, and limp tiredly through a series of public corridors back to the room. Well, at least it could be Garak's room, then, although Bashir had certainly increased the ambient temperature in his own room to nearly Garak's standards over the past week, and the blanket situation on his bed had vastly improved as well. No more sheets of aluminum foil to snuggle under...

Although the pain from the blow he had taken wasn't severe, Bashir had still opted for a pain medication - yet another sign, Garak felt, that the situation was beginning to wear him down. He had always avoided such remedies for himself in the past except in extreme cases. Was this now an extreme case, being forced to exist as a Cardassian? Evidently so. He was not suited to life as a Cardassian, on a Bajoran station - his personality, his temperament, were not at all Cardassian. Garak had never realized before how much he took for granted and usually ignored, how the whispered and the overt challenges and insults just slid off his back when he wanted them to - he never carried too many things home with him at the end of the day.

The truth was, he occasionally even relished the challenge, the fight, such as his response to the mocking innuendo from the Cardassian soldier in the security office. It got his adversarial juices flowing and kept him sharp. But Bashir probably didn't have an adversarial bone in his newly-Cardassian body. Garak vowed to try to do something about that - well, as soon as he was finished comforting his friend and giving him what he needed from him - whatever that might be.

They donned pajamas - both of them did - and climbed into bed. Garak drew the blankets around Bashir's shoulders and then reached out to pull him closer. Bashir resisted at first, pulling back very slightly, but then relaxed into Garak's arms and closed his eyes. Garak called for lights out and the two lay in silence for a few minutes, listening to each other breathe.

Finally - "Tired yet?" Garak quietly asked.

"Not yet."

"That was a fairly strong dose you took."

"Well, remember, I'm not used to this body yet... not sure what would be effective."

That was a lie, clearly and obviously, and they both knew it - as Garak's physician, Bashir knew full well which doses would be effective, especially since he had seen Garak through the worst of his withdrawal symptoms the year before. In fact, he had been the one cautioning against substituting one substance for another...

"Doctor?"

"Hmm?"

"Is anything the matter?"

Bashir slid further down until his face was almost covered by the blanket. "Well of course something's the matter. You know that. It's just been a little difficult for me to live this way - to live as - you. I don't know how you can do it."

"I think perhaps I've had a great deal more training and preparation in that regard." He smiled and felt Bashir nod. "And being Cardassian does have its - rewards." Bashir only mumbled at that. "For example -" Garak closed his eyes, gathered up his nerve, and closed his teeth around a perfectly-exposed neckridge. Bashir yelped with surprise.

"What are you doing?!"

"Attempting to show you some of the joys of a Cardassian body." 

Bashir rubbed his neck. "It's still a little tender, you know, from all the scratching I did - you could have warned me."

"I'm so sorry," Garak replied with mock courtesy, but still smiling. "I'll have to remember that in the future, when we're back to our old selves. No unexpected bites -" he bit again at a neckridge, "no caresses without warning," he rubbed the scales on the back of Bashir's neck, "and definitely no kisses without asking permission first." He grasped Bashir around the neck and kissed him, hard, but this time he didn't quite let him go as the doctor halfheartedly struggled against him.

"Garak!" Bashir finally sputtered. "What are you - I mean, I thought we already agreed that we couldn't kiss each other - I mean, we couldn't kiss ourselves -"

"You're not me," Garak proclaimed decisively. "You're you. I realized that in the bath. If I'm going to start trying to make things easier for you, you're going to cooperate by not giving me some new addiction to overcome."

"Garak! I would NEVER - I mean, you saw the bruise -"

"Which was repaired. My dear doctor, you're not going to be able to fool me. I'm not going to let you anesthetize me without my permission. There's another way you can be made to feel a lot better in that skin."

"No."

"Yes."

"No. No, it's too weird now."

"Is it?" Garak began nibbling gently on the side of Bashir's neck; Bashir moaned and squirmed in his arms but didn't pull away.

"That feels... I mean, that feels..."

"Yes?" Not lifting his lips from the skin - the breath against his ridges was beginning to distract Bashir quite thoroughly. 

"That feels really... Oh, I'm sorry!!"

"Hmm? About what?" Garak raised his head at Bashir's yelp of embarrassment.

"I think I've just... oh God, I'm so sorry, Garak." He tried to slide away from him in the bed, but Garak, suspecting what must have just occurred, reached down and delicately checked whether his suspicions were correct. Bashir became more and more agitated and his breathing quickened. "I can't believe I just did that."

"You didn't do that. You're beginning to lubricate."

"Oh! Oh yeah. Forgot all about that."

"Feels good, doesn't it?" He smiled, grasped Bashir by the shoulders, and nestled closely against him, to a chorus of ragged breaths and barely-voiced little gasps. "I'll take that as a yes."

"It's like - it's like -" Bashir managed to choke out, "like the process itself is making me even more interested in - I mean, wanting to -"

"Exactly. I liken it to starting the party early." Despite himself, Bashir laughed at that.

"And here all I thought was that it simply eased things for the partner, nothing else..." He stopped. "Garak... Garak, I don't suppose..."

"Elim."

"Elim. You wouldn't consider -"

"Julian, I'm shocked!" Garak pretended to be indignant. "You have some very odd fantasies!" But in a moment, or probably less than that, the odd fantasies that the two of them had never even imagined became even odder realities. "So that's why he enjoys this so much - if that's the way I actually feel..." Garak thought before allowing himself to stop thinking and just feel. Not odd, not awkward at all.

 

Awkward didn't even begin to describe the sensation the two felt upon awakening the next morning, however. Garak had made a conscious decision, the previous night, to almost play a role, the role of Bashir, so his friend could instead play the role of a Cardassian. Very confusing to not only play out but to live out. It had, however, worked fairly well in the dark and with the immediacy of passion to guide them. Then too, Garak had been more concerned with providing affection and comfort than dwelling on the strangeness of the situation.

But in the admittedly artificial light of morning, the strangeness of the situation became paramount. They each padded off to the bathroom for separate showers, and then dressed with their backs to each other - Garak, however, noticed Bashir rummaging around his closet before choosing a tunic that almost - not quite, but almost - exposed more than the first ridge on his neck. Progress. Of a sort. Time to test it.

"I have a suggestion. Let's go to the replimat for breakfast."

"The - no, I'd rather just eat here."

"I'd like to get out, see other people."

"I saw plenty of other people last night. People who didn't like me. Didn't like you."

"That was just one ignorant Bajoran. We don't need to allow him to hold us prisoner here."

"But I'd really just rather relax and enjoy my meal before having to face all that again."

"I understand the sentiment," Garak soothed him, tenderly massaging Bashir's shoulders for a moment, "but we don't know how long we're going to stay this way, and I don't want you to feel you need to hide in your room all the time. I never did."

"But I'm not you."

"Oh yes you are," Garak smiled. "Yes you are. In a way. Let's go." Bashir, finally and reluctantly admitting the truth of that, nodded and followed Garak to the door.


	11. Chapter 11

Breakfast started out well - again the two ordered and enjoyed favorite dishes from their respective home worlds, again they were able to eat and chat without too many puzzled glances or odd remarks directed at them. However, the hour was rather later than was usual for breakfast, and the replimat began to clear out toward the end of their meal, leaving them almost alone in the empty room, and thus, rendering them more conspicuous as well. 

It was at this point that two Bajoran technicians, unfamiliar to Bashir and certainly to Garak, sat down at a table on the opposite side of the small room and began to eat. Their conversation, however, was loud and somewhat offensive - deliberately so. "Let's finish up and get out of here," Bashir muttered, quickly pouring himself one last half-cup of tea. "I have work to do."

"In a moment. I want to savor these remaining few bites - we don't need to rush." Garak slowly and deliberately buttered another slice of toast. "And don't worry. You're with me now. Just ignore them."

"I really do have lots of work to get to," Bashir lied, glancing over his shoulder. "It's got nothing to do with them." There was a loud explosion of laughter from the other table, and then one of the men stood up and meandered all the way over to Bashir's side of the room on his way back to the replicator. Bashir braced himself but the man said nothing - until Bashir raised his cup to his mouth for another sip, at which point the Bajoran roughly and unexpectedly nudged him in the back and sent tea dripping all down the front of his tunic.

"Sorry! I didn't look where I was going!" the man snickered as his companion watched with evident pleasure. "Clumsy of me." He returned to his table and Bashir tried ineffectually to wipe the spill with his napkin. Garak simply sat and fumed.

"That was deliberate, you know."

"Well, of course it was deliberate," Bashir irritably agreed. "I'm not stupid. But it's not worth creating a big scene over such a little incident. They'll be gone soon and I'll never have to see them again."

"But then others will always arrive to take their place... Doctor, I think you're doing a little bit of damage to my reputation with your meekness and mildness." Bashir started to protest. "Oh, of course it's not your fault, but I think I need to help you administer a gentle lesson in Cardassian etiquette." He stood and tried to pull Bashir up by the arm; Bashir resisted. "Nothing too dramatic, I promise you."

"But there are two of them -"

"And there are two of us," Garak chided him. "With Odo's full sympathy. Get up - it's time. Look what that one is eating." Bashir glanced over to the other table - his tormentor was busily engaged in devouring a flat cake of some sort that was covered with purple sauce and fluffy whipped cream. Garak, watching, almost licked his lips in anticipation. 

"What's that got to do with it?"

"You'll see." Bashir had risen by that point and he and Garak slowly made their way to the Bajorans' table; the two were laughing and talking over their meal, barely paying attention any more to the determined mission of retaliation headed their way. Garak placed his hands on the small of Bashir's back and pushed him forward, then whispered in his ear, "Back of his head."

"What?"

"Put your hand on the back of his head and push it down."

"You've got to be kidding me! No! I can't do that!" Bashir whispered back. "That's a blatant, aggressive -"

"It's nothing of the kind - he pushed you first. Do it." Bashir hesitated. "Do it," Garak urged again. "I'm right here if you need me."

"Garak - I mean - that's so childish -" At that moment, the two Bajorans began to chuckle over 'tea-flavored Cardies' or some such bit of nonsense. Bashir suddenly remembered that it was Garak, his friend and his partner, whom they believed they were harassing; he walked behind the first man, the one with his back to him, stared straight ahead as if he were heading out the doorway, reached out sideways, and, with an "oops," suddenly pushed. Pushed hard. The Bajoran gasped, spluttered, raised his now-purple face wearing a beard of whipped cream and glared in disbelief at Bashir. 

His companion in the meantime had half-risen when Garak snarled at them in Bajoran, "Be glad that's all he did. The last time, it was boiling hot soup. In the face. You'd better watch your back from now on - he's furious." He then poked Bashir sharply in the ribs and mimed a look of rage at him; Bashir got the hint and complied. "Oh, and one more thing. He's willing to buy you another meal to replace that one if you apologize. After all, he's not uncivilized, just angry."

The Bajorans merely gaped at Garak, whose eyes had locked on to them and never wavered; then, slowly, one of the men - the surlier one - nodded. "We're sorry. That was rude."

"I hope he accepts your apology. I'll repeat it to him just to make sure." Garak turned to Bashir and dictated something in Kardasi, which of course Bashir could not quite understand. He finished with a few words in Standard. "So you agree to that? They can go?" He nodded at Bashir and signaled with his eyes that Bashir should also nod. "My friend hopes you enjoy your time on the station. Are you familiar with Klingon cuisine?" The Bajorans, mystified, shook their heads. "Please stop by the Klingon restaurant later and ask for Mintagh. Tell him Garak would like to treat both of you to the best and freshest he has to offer." With that, he took Bashir's arm and hurried him out of the restaurant.

Once in the corridor, Bashir turned to him, incredulous. "I realize you got them to apologize, but why in the world did you agree to buy them food? Even Klingon food?"

"I have found, dear boy, that my cause is always best served here by offering a reward along with the punishment. So when someone attacks me, I first of all defend myself, and then, when appropriate, I allow him to feel there's still a way he can get the better of me, or at least preserve his dignity. It usually works out quite well - I've gotten many commissions that way, and even made a few acquaintances."

"And perhaps a few enemies later too."

Garak shrugged. "There's always a new enemy coming along - why waste time worrying about the old ones?"

 

Later that day, Garak stopped by the replimat again for a light midday meal - Bashir was busy helping Dax and O'Brien, and Garak, in truth, welcomed the chance to see just what the day would again bring him in his human body. It was swiftly becoming a wonderful new adventure, wandering around the station with Bashir's body but without his reticence or his awkwardness - Garak greatly enjoyed the surprised and pleased looks on the faces he greeted with hearty enthusiasm. 

He was never quite sure if they knew he was still Garak, or if they hoped he was not, or if they hadn't even been informed about the switch yet. But it didn't really matter. People were always happy to see him now, and he, in turn, found he enjoyed experiencing life this way after all. So any chance to continue his explorations of this new existence was a welcome diversion. He was also happy with the way he had begun to teach the doctor a little more about asserting himself - such lessons would never go to waste, even if - when - they resumed their previous identities. 

And as for the bedroom... Garak grinned to himself. Oh, he had no doubt that a more assertive Bashir would be a great deal of fun there too, no matter what lectures on the proper relation of Cardassian to human Garak would still see fit to subject him to. And, after all, in this present case, what would he consider Bashir - Cardassian or human? For that matter, what would he consider himself, if he really had to choose? What mattered most?

He was still deep in these philosophical and physical speculations when an agreeably outgoing young woman sat down at his table. Ah - it was the one who had kissed him in his shop, a day or two ago - Haruki? Haruko?

"Hi, Julian!" she smiled. "Still avoiding me?" Garak stared at her - surely Bashir must have mentioned the switch to her by now - or someone else had. So was she joking? "I'm sorry I ran off like that - we went down to Bajor yesterday and I just got back. But now I'd like to catch up, if you have time. I have a couple of things I wanted to say to you."

He nodded, still not speaking. Hidemi? He'd have to know her name if he were to successfully impersonate Bashir - but then again, did he really want to continue to impersonate Bashir at that point? And if so - why?

"It's Haruka," she finally laughed. "Haruka? Remember? Don't tell me you forgot again! You never could remember my name!"

"Well, at least I never forget YOU," Garak replied, with as close to a British accent as he could manage. Haruka gave him an odd look.

"You sound - different. Are you losing your accent?"

"I suppose I am, living among all these people now," Garak said; then, changing the subject, "It was nice seeing you the other day."

She laughed. "Yes it was - sorry I just kissed and ran but I really had no time. I had wasted too much of it trying to find you!"

"Oh well, it was worth the wait." He grinned.

"I hope so. I've been hearing things about you, Julian."

"Things about me?" 

"Things. Weird things." Ah. The switch. So she did know. Then why was she still calling him Julian -

"Well, I was going to tell you about that," he began. "It was certainly a shock to everyone here. I can't really explain it - I just woke up one morning and everything was different. Everything - I was completely changed."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. A total surprise."

"Really? You fell in love just like that and have no idea why?

"Fell in love?" Garak stared at her, confused. "Fell in love?"

"Ah - forgive me. So you don't love him?"

"Love him?"

"Julian," she sighed, "I heard you and a Cardassian man are quite the pair now. You. And a Cardassian man." She grimaced.

"Why? What's wrong with me and a -"

"Because it's kind of disturbing, that's why. I mean, what the hell, Julian? They're horrid people - if they're even people. You enjoy getting beaten up? Told you're Federation garbage?"

"He doesn't tell me I'm -"

"He's even managed to make you change your accent, doctor! Do you not hear yourself? And where did I eventually find you the other day? In his shop, doing his work for him! What - was he sleeping late with Gul Dukat or something?" 

Garak, horrified, nevertheless nearly laughed out loud, at not only the image of Bashir scrambling to finish his clothing orders for him like some sort of workshop elf, but at the thought of himself and the formidable Dukat sharing late breakfast in bed... Oh, this was fun - and disturbing, but fun. He began to wish mightily that Bashir would stumble upon the two of them, and soon, so he could begin baiting this woman with fresh images. But she was, alas, continuing her tirade.

"And one more thing. You don't have to agree - you don't even have to look at me now. But I'm telling you this for your own good. The more you get involved with that man, the more like him you're going to get, until people won't even be able to tell the two of you apart. He'll make sure of that. He'll take you over. Do you want to become a Cardassian, Julian? No feelings, no compassion, no caring about anyone but themselves and their precious State? Do you actually want to be like one of them?"

"No... no, of course not," Garak faltered. "Of course not. Who would?"

"I'm glad you see it that way. You can do so much better. Infinitely better. I just wanted to tell you that." She leaned forward for a kiss but Garak pulled away. "If it's just for the sex, I wouldn't be so worried, but I heard you actually like this - man." Garak didn't move. "Anyway, gotta run. Maybe we can talk again before I leave tomorrow. Love you." 

Garak raised his hand to halfheartedly wave good-bye to her, but could not bring himself to return the sentiment.


	12. Chapter 12

"Why, Doctor Bashir! What a pleasant surprise!" Bashir exclaimed happily as Garak entered the infirmary. It was more than a little eerie and Garak almost did a double-take; even the accent was gone. For a moment, anyway. 

Bashir smiled. "I've been planning that for a while! How'd I do?"

"What can I say? You're a - what do they call it - a dead ringer."

Bashir frowned. "Bad choice of words, Garak! Bad, bad choice!" He smiled then to ease the reprimand. "I'm glad to see you - I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner out tonight. I'm willing to try Quark's again - if you are."

Garak demurred. "Believe it or not, doctor - I was looking forward to a quiet evening alone with you." Bashir looked surprised. "I thought perhaps we should talk again."

"Talk?" Bashir turned and began shutting down two of the workstations for the night. "Well, sure, of course. Is anything wrong?"

"I was about to ask you the same question."

"Actually, Garak," he said as he gathered up several padds, "things went a lot better today. The itching has stopped, for one thing. And I've tried to be a little more assertive when people give me trouble - you know: 'You will stop this nonsense at once and let me examine you!' That kind of thing. Oh, and then of course, last night helped." He grinned.

"Yes, that was - quite a night." Garak grinned back.

"That was really something. That was -" Bashir dropped his voice, "possibly worth repeating. If you're up to it."

Garak grinned again. "I'm always up to it with you, Mr. Garak. Just thinking about you almost guarantees I'll be up to it. I love those magnificent Cardassian scales of yours."

"When they're not shedding?"

"Even when they're shedding." The two were alone, so Garak leaned forward for a quick bite of one. Bashir dodged him.

"Doctor Bashir! This is neither the time nor the place. First I want to spend three hours describing another enigma tale to you - in excruciating detail and with much hand-waving and drinking of smelly beverages."

"Oh, I see! Fine - then I'm going to pout at you and yawn and tell you I'm late for darts with my playmate O'Brien."

"You're just jealous."

"Yes I am." Garak stood and smiled at Bashir, who, taken aback by the sudden flash of honesty, blinked back at him. "I am indeed. Why can't we ever play darts?"

"Because your aim is terrible and I'd always win," Bashir replied, rousing himself. "Then you'd sulk and be terrible company for the whole night. But is that all you meant about being -"

"Let's just get going," Garak demurred, taking his arm. "'Always win,' indeed. I think it's time the Federation teaches you Cardies -"

"Don't!" Bashir stopped. "Don't do that! That's not at all funny! I'm sorry, but it's just not."

"But I wasn't serious - I was just playing. I didn't mean you. I meant -"

"I know what you meant. You meant you." Bashir faced Garak and put his hands on his shoulders. "You meant you. You pretend to be so uncaring and so confident, but I think I can guess what all this does to you every day, day in and day out. I think, if you had your way... well, I think you'd prefer staying me. Wouldn't you?"

"Oh, doctor! You're just overreacting to a little joke - a bad one, but still just a joke."

Bashir's penetrating blue eyes locked on to his and stared for at least half a minute. "I hope so," he finally said. "I hope so, because I want you to know, Mister Elim Garak, that I love you and I love every Cardassian part of you, inside and out. I wouldn't change you for anything." He paused. "Not even the shedding."

Garak couldn't help it. He asked, "And you don't think you could do a lot better?"

"A lot better? Than what?"

"Than me. Than a Cardassian."

"What are you talking about? I love Cardassians. I love you. There IS nothing better. Certainly not from my point of view." He smiled brightly, eyeridges raised, and Garak laughed despite himself.

"Well, as you - as we - humans always say - it takes one know one." Bashir also laughed, greeted the nurse who had arrived to take over for him, and waited for Garak to precede him through the door as they departed.

 

"Nothing's wrong with the system. Absolutely nothing. Just as we've already concluded." Dax addressed Garak and Bashir, who had come to Engineering to ask about any further progress on the transporter malfunction. Chief O'Brien was there too, along with an assortment of snarling, hissing voles in several cages on the floor, only meters away from where O'Brien lay sprawled out under a computer console. "We've sent these voles through the system at least a dozen times - sent them all around the station, even sent them to the runabout, and got them back each time, a little more infuriated but the very same voles."

"How can you tell?" Bashir asked. "How can you be sure they weren't switched too? Did you scan their patterns?"

"We didn't even need to. We've been monitoring their personalities as best as we can - well, with voles," she replied. "For example, we named this one Alpha - he reaches for food with his paws. This one's Gamma - he curls up into a ball when Beta gets near him. Well, after every one of the transports, they do exactly the same things they did before. Exhibit the same behaviors."

Bashir appeared unconvinced. "That doesn't seem very precise. After all, I reach for food with my paws too..." O'Brien rolled his eyes. 

Garak, watching the cages with interest, asked him, "Are you saying you transport them into all these places, then just let them run free while you wait to bring them back?"

"Of course."

"Any chance you could transport a couple of them into the visitor quarters?" Bashir elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

"Now, the only problem, gentlemen," O'Brien said as he climbed to his feet, "is that we're not even going to think of testing the system on any other lifeforms - any people - until the Starfleet expert gets here. And that could be another week, I'm told." 

Bashir sighed. "And even when you do, what's to say that anything at all will change? Nothing like this ever happened before, and nothing may ever again - and here we are, permanently in these bodies."

Dax said nothing; O'Brien said nothing. Bashir and Garak thanked them and trudged back to Garak's room, likewise saying - nothing.

 

"I was afraid of this." Garak, lying across his bed reading a padd, looked up at Bashir's statement; he was sitting at the communications unit. "A message from my parents."

"Oh Julian, I'm so sorry - I can't even imagine what they must be thinking now -"

"They don't know." Bashir exited the screen. "I haven't told them, and I doubt if anyone else from Starfleet will either, without my permission. This is just their semi-regular 'Hello, son, please keep in touch' letter." He sighed. "I have no idea how to answer them this time, so I'll probably just say nothing, which is how I usually answer anyway." He sat down on the bed and stretched out next to Garak, pillowing his head on his arms. "I mean, after all, what CAN I say - I'm not feeling myself lately? I haven't been home for so long that they wouldn't recognize me any more?"

"Well... you could always tell them... You could tell them - you could say..."

"Exactly." Bashir turned his head to look at Garak. "And what about yours? What would you say to yours?"

Garak stared at the ceiling. "Much the same thing, I expect."

"Garak..." Bashir began, then stopped. Garak could almost guess what he had been about to say but he didn't respond. His parents. He never discussed them with Bashir, never planned to discuss them with Bashir, and certainly never planned to tell the doctor that he had already met and had no doubt made quite an impression on Garak's father, one Garak sincerely hoped wasn't going to have repercussions someday. 

But that was a worry for another time - this present situation needed to be resolved first. And, after all, he was proud beyond words at what Bashir had done - in fact, that single action was the one, more than anything else, that convinced him that despite all evidence to the contrary, his beloved Julian Bashir truly possessed a Cardassian soul.

And now a Cardassian body to go along with it... To lighten the somber mood somewhat, Garak laughed, "Well, at least you could still easily oblige them if they asked for a picture."

"I suppose you're right! I could send one of us both standing side by side - no one would ever know whether it was Bashir and Garak or Garak and Bashir. We could take it with that bizarre Klingon camera of yours."

"No, that's gone. I gave it back to Mintagh. I never did like that thing."

"What was wrong with it?" Bashir turned to Garak and snuggled against him. 

"It was very old, very outdated - it kept giving me little shocks. I even had a burn on my hand from it - maybe still have," he said, turning Bashir's palm over. "Still there. That stupid camera hurt!"

"Typically Klingon," Bashir smiled. "They could probably figure out how to make a pillow hurt." He closed his eyes. "Still... you did take some beautiful images with it."

"Purely by chance. I just kept clicking away as we went through. The runabout's scans could have captured the very same things - that is, until the malfunctions started."

"When did they start, exactly?" Bashir opened his eyes as a nagging thought began to grow. "After we got close to the station?"

"No, right after we went through the wormhole."

"You mean the return trip?"

"Yes, the return trip. The one I tried to photogr- Oh. Oh no - that can't be right. No. Pure coincidence."

"Pure coincidence. You were using an old and untested Klingon device that sent out pulses of energy at the very same time we were navigating through a wormhole's energy fields. Does that sound correct?"

Garak was silent. Then, in a small, clipped voice, "Can't be related. Impossible. It's just a camera, not a weapon."

"Garak," Bashir sighed, "I think we'd better let the chief take a look at that camera. Just in case."

"All right. Just in case. But it's pure coincidence."

"Yes... pure coincidence," Bashir agreed, his hand absently ruffling Garak's thick hair. Garak had insisted on bringing the camera along on the trip through the wormhole in his attempt to escape Cardassians. He had done a very good job of that in the end, hadn't he, Bashir mused, as he pressed his face against Garak's human neck and stroked his scruffy cheeks. Pure coincidence.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 14 chapters I planned will be: 14 chapters. So the boys have just a little more time to play in these new bodies - or maybe they'll have a LOT more time to play in these new bodies... Either way, gentle lessons need to be learned.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, doctor," O'Brien regretfully and reflexively turned to Garak, then back to Bashir, "but it's just a camera." The camera in question lay in pieces over his worktable. "Even if it did produce energy fluctuations, hell, no runabout makes it through the wormhole without a least one or two random energy fluctuations. And besides, the accident didn't occur in the wormhole, or even right after we came through it."

"I know," Bashir replied impatiently.

"It didn't even happen during your beam-out - it was at least an hour later, probably more. You were long since disembarked by then." The three men stood and regarded the mass of components with defeat.

"It seemed like such a good clue, though," Bashir said. "Something that was out of the ordinary."

"This is certainly out of the ordinary," O'Brien agreed, gesturing toward the table, and silently gesturing toward the two of them as well. "Don't ever use anything like this again, Garak - it puts out a little bit of radiation too. Not enough to hurt anyone, but with prolonged use - who knows."

Garak nodded. "Well, it was worth a try, anyway."

"And you don't think there's any way we could use this camera again to re-create the accident..." Bashir trailed off at O'Brien's look of discouragement.

"No, I wouldn't take the chance. We're finally bringing the runabout back here to dock, but it'll be months before we think of taking it through the wormhole again." 

"Well, thank you anyway, chief," Bashir said; he and Garak left engineering and headed slowly to the Promenade, Bashir somewhat disconsolately and certainly somewhat incongruously leaning against Garak as they walked. "Well, that's that. So much for that idea."

"Doctor... I'm beginning to think that this is it for us. This is our future."

"I've been wondering the same thing. Even though - I still wake up every morning checking to see who I am, before I even open my eyes."

"Perfectly understandable. I do that too. I wonder if everyone else here wonders the same thing about us, in a way."

"Yeah, it would be funny to switch back and not tell anyone, wouldn't it?"

"One can only imagine what we could do in that case. But there's one major problem." Garak smiled. 

"Oh? And that is?"

"You could never, ever keep it up. You're much too nice. And too timid."

"And here I thought you were going to say that you knew next to nothing about multispecies medicine." Bashir sighed and clasped Garak's hand. "There's another problem too - something I very much wish we could solve." They had reached the doorway of Garak's shop and Garak let them both inside; Bashir reached out to lock the door behind them and, in the half-darkness, pulled Garak to him and kissed him. Kissed him gently, grasped him behind the head and kissed him harder, kissed him until they could both feel their mutual heartbeats racing. Pulled away and looked him in the eyes.

"You see what I mean? That's great fun - it was fun last night - but it's just not the same. We're getting a little better at realizing who's inside the shell, but Garak - I can't help it, I loved the shell." He closed his eyes and pulled Garak closer. "This situation is forcing me to evaluate what's really important, though, isn't it?" He paused. "What I mean is, if you had been injured, if your appearance had changed in ways we couldn't repair - well, I'd still feel exactly the same about you. I know I would. I'd love you and I'd love the way you looked. But when you simply changed to look like ME, well... it's been so hard to adjust to that. I really miss you being Cardassian. I loved the shell," he repeated. "I feel as if I'm being cheated now. Maybe I'm more shallow than I think I am."

"Julian, Julian." Garak placed a hand on each side of Bashir's waist. "That's not shallow. You have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. I didn't just change my appearance - I look and sound exactly like YOU. Tell me anyone in Starfleet who'd be able to handle something like that as well as we have." Bashir nodded, relieved. "And as for the shell - I loved it too. Yours, that is. I thought you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, male or female - I couldn't believe my good fortune. I was sure that -" He stopped.

"You were sure that what?"

"I was sure that... that someone was playing a joke on me, or trying to trap me. You know - I make the wrong move and I'm banished from the station. Or, even worse - I frighten you and you leave. You always tell me you could go anywhere you wanted to."

Bashir hugged him around the waist and smiled into his eyes. "You did frighten me. You still do. But I wouldn't leave for anything. And you know what?" Garak inclined his head. "I wouldn't have traded this for anything either - how close we've become now. That thing about being able to leave - that's just to impress you, not scare you. I won't say it again. I can't leave here."

"Well, not now, at any rate. Not looking like that."

"Not ever." Bashir planted a loud, smacking kiss on the middle of Garak's human forehead. "Not ever. But now - you'd better open up the shop - I see people headed this way."

"Oh." Garak sighed. "Yes, I'm quite popular now - ever since the switch. One wonders why my work is suddenly held in so much more esteem. If anything, I'm not even sure the quality is quite up to par - I still struggle a bit with your hands after all. But I suppose one must never discount the value of an attractive salesman."

"Garak - I've been thinking about that. I'm not sure if that's the only reason, based on things you've been telling me. I'm... well, I'm not totally convinced that everyone else on the station is that shallow either."

"Oh come now."

"No, I'm serious. I have an idea. I know these two women. Go wait in the workroom."

"Hmm?"

"Go - into the workroom. I want to see if they can help me prove something to you." Bashir practically pushed Garak through the doorway, then went back out into the shop, cheerfully calling out, "Hello, ladies!" as the two Bajoran women entered. They regarded him with unabashed curiosity.

"Mister - Garak? Is that you? We hadn't heard you were - well - back."

"I'm not," Bashir answered honestly. "He's not. Not yet. But I've been thinking it over and I've decided to start helping out here. I'm not wanted very often in the infirmary now, so why not keep myself busy?" They nodded, uncertainly. 

"Yes - we're sorry - we heard a little about that. It must be difficult for you - all of this."

"It's understandable, though," Bashir replied with a shrug. "Perfectly understandable, with me looking like this." The women began to protest. "No, no, it's perfectly all right. I'm fine. That's just the way it is now and I'm getting used to it. But tell me - what can I do for you?"

"We wanted to look at some dresses for the - No, never mind, we can come back later."

"Oh no, I wouldn't hear of it. I'd love to be able to tell Garak I assisted actual customers. May I show you something in... bright green?" He grabbed happily at one of the gaudiest mannequins on display. "This would look lovely on either one of you - chiffon is never out of style, and certainly no one would ever think it would pair so well with corduroy -"

"No, thank you," the women again repeated, smiling at each other. "Although it's certainly very pretty, and we do appreciate your efforts, Doctor Bashir! But can you tell us when Garak will be in?"

"I'm not really sure when he's free. But I have a confession - I'm not totally without taste; I know there are far more elegant dresses over here." He led them to a rack that Garak had recently set up. "I'm sure these are more what you were looking for." 

"Possibly... but we'd still rather come back when Garak is here."

"All right, I give up! Garak it is. But I would like to ask you something," he said. "If you don't mind telling me. I'm confident I'm not scaring you two away, but I'm not as sure about others who may stop by. As you can imagine, Garak's shop has been quite popular this past week." He smiled; the women glanced at one another. "I was hoping you'd give me your opinion. Is it because he looks, ah, not so - Cardassian - now? I think we know each other well enough for honesty, and I trust your candor." He smiled again to take the sting out of his words, but his tone was serious. "I wouldn't want to hurt his business by standing in for him."

"No, Doctor Bashir, you're certainly not! It's just that you're not Garak. We've discovered that Garak has a certain sense of style that, well, we're not sure if you share. No offense, of course."

"None taken. So you're both regular customers of his?"

"No, actually, we never visited his shop before this week. Honestly, we were probably afraid to," one of the women answered. Bashir's face fell. That wasn't what he was hoping to prove to Garak. He had trusted that these two, at least, were a little less prejudiced than the average Bajoran, based on his previous experiences with them... "Neither one of us quite knew how to approach him. You must realize that there aren't any Cardassian tailors back home! But he's been everywhere recently, talking to everyone, giving out coupons - we were curious. It seemed strange at first to order clothing from - from *you*, doctor, but after a few minutes, we forget and it's just Garak."

"Plain, simple Garak," Bashir recalled, and grinned. Just like Garak.

"Yes - and when will he be back, did you say?" Bashir laughed and told them to return in an hour. Then he locked the door, returned to the workroom, took Garak into his arms, and kissed him quite thoroughly in between cheerful refrains of "I told you so."

"'Told me so?' Told me what?"

"That you've changed. People aren't just responding to you because you're me - they're responding to you because you're you, only happier and more confident than ever. Reaching out to them now."

"Oh, I'm sure there's a lot more to it than that. Look in the mirror if you need reminding."

"Possibly. And for some people - no doubt things will never change. But for others - you've become the life of the party, my love. Meanwhile I was hanging back, intimidated by all this, too scared to say a word to anyone. It seems we both still have a lot to learn about each other - both inside and out."

"It seems we do. Are you busy for lunch?"

"Not any more. Are you?"

"I am now. The shop is closed." Garak called for lights out.


	14. Chapter 14

One more week until the "expert" would arrive. One more week until Starfleet's foremost authority in transporter technology, Professor Suran, would lend his considerable Vulcan expertise to the analysis - one more week until he would be granted the opportunity to speak in person to two of the most unusual victims of a transporter malfunction that Starfleet had ever encountered.

There had been cases before of transposed physical characteristics, misplaced body parts, misaligned features, and then of course there was the sad list of casualties of greater or lesser degree of malformation. But never in recent memory had there been a case in which the transposed individuals so perfectly inhabited their new bodies - it was truly as if only the consciousness had been lifted and transplanted, leaving the bodies alone. In fact, the expert wanted very much to explore that aspect as well, as far as his Vulcan ethics, and the subjects' reticence, would allow him.

But for now, Garak and Bashir needed to continue existing in their separate shells, with all the ramifications of being a human or a Cardassian on Deep Space Nine - in fact, with the ramifications of being both. At once. And as their inner confidence grew, so too did their outer confidence.

For example, Garak called an unscheduled post-banquet meeting of the Promenade Merchants Association. He had two motives. He wished to bask in the success of the banquet, before the other members would forget that he had really outdone himself at his first-ever hosting opportunity. Second, he wanted to remind the committee that it was he, Elim Garak, and not Doctor Julian Bashir, who would continue to interact with them, and they had better get used to that fact.

Thus, since he called for the special session, he was free to invite whomever he wished to join it, and he invited - Julian Bashir, in the body of Elim Garak. How better to increase the committee's comfort level with Cardassians? 

Bashir proposed several initiatives, all of which had been dictated by Garak beforehand and all of which the committee agreed to discuss. He sat next to the Bajoran contingent and did his best to microscopically work his way into their personal spaces - and as the meeting went on and conversation (and synthale) flowed, personal spaces shrank until it was impossible to tell whether or not Bashir was as welcome as Garak at that table.

He also began, an hour or two each day, to help out in Garak's shop as more than just a humorous experiment. It became important to the two of them that people not forget that it was a Cardassian who owned the shop and who would be filling their orders. And to Garak's pleased surprise, it became a Cardassian - well, Bashir, actually, but looking like a Cardassian - who was finally able to sell the perennially-displayed bright green chiffon-and-corduroy creation. To a Bajoran, no less. A Bajoran with excruciatingly bad taste, but still - a Bajoran.

Garak happily returned the favor. He greeted patients in the infirmary; he retrieved supplies; he even sat down on the floor and constructed a very involved miniature Bajoran city with several children who had accompanied their parents for treatment. To hear a Cardassian, even one who looked and sounded human, so patiently and industriously planning the layout of Bajoran streets was comically incongruous but charmingly so, and that added to the comfort level in that room as well. But he made it very clear that Bashir, and not he, was the doctor there, and that it was Bashir who would be treating patients and Bashir who would be evaluating symptoms - Bashir, in other words, who was in charge. 

And he was. Garak's presence greatly helped ease the way for Bashir, though; the Bajoran couple who had become parents that first fateful night of the switch were also visitors to the infirmary now, and although hesitant at the sight of their baby cradled in Cardassian arms, were now trying their best to adjust to it. Bashir didn't blame them for their initial shock - he would have been just as shocked at such a preposterous tale in the middle of a stressful night. But he was the doctor, he had a job to do, and he was no longer going to be discouraged from doing it. 

With Garak's help, of course.

The night before the expert was to arrive, Garak and Bashir lay comfortably in bed, Garak leaning back against the pillows as Bashir took his accustomed and well-loved spot against Garak's side, his arms wrapped around his waist. It occurred to him then, as it still occasionally did, that Garak's body fit rather well so near his, so comfortably and cozily nestled into the blankets. It wasn't awkward at all to have a Cardassian head tucked under a human chin rather than the other way around... He'd have to remember that, if they ever found their way back into their old shells. Their old selves. The only question was whether Garak would make that switch too...

They slept. And while they slept, O'Brien was struggling mightily, just one more time, to figure out what in heaven or on earth - or Deep Space Nine - had caused the transporter malfunction. While he had no quarrel with the fact that Professor Suran was the acknowledged expert in the field, and the Vulcan Science Academy could boast few more eminent geniuses, he had his own considerable professional pride to consider. And it rankled him that, over two weeks after the accident, over two weeks of continuous study and effort and analysis on his part had brought no solution. Not even the hint of a solution. 

He sighed, pushed his sweat-soaked hair off his forehead, and dove one more time into the bowels of the runabout's command console, one last look around now that it was docked. While he had never strayed from his conviction that DS9's transporters were the only ones that had been involved in the malfunction, he still knew that the energy pulses coursing through the runabout may have played no small part at that instant either - after all, a stray energy pulse just as transport was initiated could have... just possibly... 

No, the accident had not occurred when transport had been initiated. He pounded his fist against his forehead for the hundredth time. Then he spied, out of the corner of one eye, a very small, almost undetectable loose wire dangling down from the control board. A loose gray wire, with a frayed end - as if something, some wave of stray energy, perhaps even a pulse from a badly-maintained and poorly-understood old Klingon camera, had burned through the connection and unbalanced all the systems dependent on it. O'Brien briefly examined the wire, smoothed it, soldered it back in place, powered up and checked the systems one more time, and then reluctantly packed up his little arsenal of tools and called it a night.

 

Julian Bashir awoke to an unfamiliar sound - that of his communicator alarm ringing. He groggily reached out to switch it off, then yawned, still without opening his eyes. He had no idea why he was still so tired - after all, he and Garak had gone to bed quite early, knowing that Professor Suran was due to arrive during the night and would want to see them almost immediately that morning. So he had set his alarm for 0500, not expecting that he'd actually need it.

But he did. And so, evidently, did Garak - Bashir felt him lying heavy and immobile against his chest. In fact, Garak's weight was making it difficult to move - with a grunt, Bashir dislodged him slightly and rubbed his eyes. How unfamiliar but not unpleasant was the sensation, that smooth skin, and those whiskers long enough to be soft now, not prickly and scratchy as they had felt the last time Garak had kissed him - "GARAK!" Bashir screamed.

"Hmm?" The Cardassian blinked up at him from his position against Bashir's chest. "Is something -" He gasped and scrambled to a sitting position in the bed. "We - you - how did -?"

"Exactly. We're back. I don't know how, but we're back." He reached out and felt Garak's face, then his shoulders, then cupped his face in his hands and kissed him soundly on the mouth. "It's really you! And me, right?" Garak nodded. "We're back! We, my love, are BACK!" He thought for a moment. "Just in time for the expert."

"Who traveled a very long way and no doubt will be as furious as his Vulcan control will allow him to be, once he realizes that..." Garak suddenly laughed out loud. "Who cares! Who the hell cares!" 

Next to him, Bashir laughed in jubilation and kissed him again. "You do realize that he's still going to want to investigate all this. He may very well want us to get back into the transporter -"

"NO! No! Absolutely not! Let him do it - as many times as he wishes. We can be the observers this time." He leapt to his feet. "They work!"

"What works?"

"My legs! They work! And my hands work!" he laughed, flexing his fingers and then using them to grasp Bashir behind the neck and kiss him. "And my mouth works!"

"Oh, I can't imagine your mouth ever NOT working," Bashir grinned, climbing off the bed. "But I love seeing you use it." He took his turn at kissing. "I love seeing YOU, period. Without having to look in the mirror..." He did two quick jumping jacks. "This is remarkable. I feel great now. All systems go."

"I wonder what else works," Garak asked him slyly. "Do you suppose we have time to check one other system before we -" Just then, Bashir's communicator beeped - Sisko was summoning both of them to his office to meet at last with the esteemed Vulcan scientist whose visit had roused the entire senior staff out of their quarters, and who was probably even then haughtily giving O'Brien fits. 

"We're on our way, sir," Bashir answered. "But - we have something to tell you." 

A beat. "This is now Doctor Bashir, I take it."

"Yes sir."

A sigh. "Meet me in my office. Sisko out."

 

Suran and O'Brien formed an unlikely alliance after all, an alliance borne of intense curiosity and mutual, uncontrolled frustration. No one was disputing the facts - no one was denying that Garak and Bashir had indeed switched bodies for over two weeks, and had now suddenly and miraculously returned to their former selves while they slept. So now the only question that remained was - why. As days passed, the two disparate researchers even began sending themselves on transporter journeys, with absolutely no complications and certainly no mingling of Vulcan stoicism with Irish emotion. The unresolved puzzle united them both in every other way, however.

No one ever thought to check the runabout's transporter, though. No one - not even the Vulcan genius. The camera, likewise, was quietly disposed of and would not wreak its mysteriously bizarre Klingon revenge on any more Federation and Cardassian citizens. So the puzzle remained a puzzle, and every morning, Bashir silently thanked whatever powers in the universe had put him back into his human shell, a shell he found most pleasurable indeed to mingle with that of a Cardassian.

Mingling of another sort continued as well - Bashir suddenly found himself in demand as a fashion consultant, while Garak had the frightening experience of more than once being made the caretaker of little Bajoran children while their parents shopped the Promenade. His recent alliance with Mintagh bore unexpected fruit - the Klingon asked him to not only create the garments for his second wedding but to arrange the banquet in addition. The holophotos, however, were not his responsibility - Garak insisted that he would never again handle another Klingon camera.

Finally. The night of the rescheduled darts tournament - the first one had been suspended almost two weeks ago because of the bar brawl. It was agreed that teams, and team standings, would start fresh. And they certainly did - the team of Suran and O'Brien took first place, as the two allowed themselves an evening of recreation in the midst of their work. Their precision was almost uncanny - more than a few bystanders wondered just who was inhabiting those bodies after all. 

The team of Bashir and Garak (or Garak and Bashir, as the Cardassian insisted it be recorded) did not fare quite so well. For every poor shot Garak threw, Bashir countered with an even worse one, to his amazement, his chagrin, but in the end, his unconcern. He even hugged Garak around the waist, in front of everyone, after a particularly bad score. "Are you sure you're back?" O'Brien called over to him. Bashir only laughed and looked into Garak's blue eyes. No, he wasn't sure, not really, but if he still held a part of Garak inside, and Garak a part of him, that was perfectly all right with them both.

 

The End


End file.
